FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


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0F  PRW^X 
MATINS   AND   MsPgRST 


HYMNS 


Jhs^*   Myu*    fav^ 


OCCASIONAL   DEVOTIONAL    PIECES. 


JOHN    BOWRING. 


LONDON: 

PRINTED    FOR    THE    AUTHOR: 
SOLD   BY  G.  AND  W.  B.  WHITTAKER,  AVE-MARIA  LANE 

AND 

ROWLAND  HUNTER,  ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCHYARD. 


1823. 


B.  Bensley,  Bolt  Court,  Fleet  Street. 


TO 


D«  LANT    CARPENTER. 

Within  my  infant  breast  parental  care 

The  living  seed  of  young  devotion  planted, 

And  watched  and  watered  it — and  prayed,  and  panted, 

That  it  might  spring,  and  bud,  and  blossom  there  : — 

'Twas  timid, — unobtrusive — for  it  wanted 

The  guidance  of  some  mild  interpreter 

To  give  its  breathings  utterance, — form  its  prayer, 

And  guide  its  heavenward  tendency. — 'Twas  granted  ! 

Thy  hand  led  on  the  trembling  wanderer  ; 

Thy  voice  spoke  sweet  encouragement — the  boy 

Ripen'd  into  man, — and  now  delights  to  bring 

To  its  old  shrine  a  spring-tide  offering : 

Accept  it — 'tis  the  grateful  Votary's  joy, 

To  blend  his  name  with  Thine  in  union  here. 

J.B. 


PREFACE. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  a  little  volume  written 
byDr.WiTSCHEL,  entitled  Morgen  und  Abend  Opfer,  which 
has  passed  through  several  editions  in  Germany,  will  see 
how  largely  I  have  been  indebted  to  it.  It  first  suggested 
the  idea,  that  a  similar  collection  might  serve  the  cause  of 
religion  and  virtue  at  home. 

So  much  of  serene  and  so  much  of  joyful  feeling,  so 
much  of  calm  and  grateful  recollection,  so  much  of  present 
peace  and  comfort,  and  so  much  of  holy  and  transporting 
hope,  are  connected  with  the  cultivation  of  the  devotional 
spirit, — that  to  assist  its  exercises,  to  administer  to  its 
wants,  and  to  accompany  its  heavenly  aspirations,  are 
objects  worthy  of  the  noblest,  the  best  ambition. 

In  attempting  to  give  some  of  the  ornaments  of  song  to 
such  contemplations,  and  such  expressions  as  become 
those  who  have  formed  a  true  estimate  of  life,  and  of  the 
ends  of  living,  I  trust  I  have  never  forgotten  that  the 
substance  of  piety  is  of  higher  interest  than  any  of  its 
decorations, — that  the  presence  of  truth  is  of  more  im- 
portance than  the  garment  it  wears. 


PREFACE. 

I  have  often  witnessed,  with  complacency  and  delight, 
the  consoling  influence  produced  by  the  recollection  of 
some  passage  of  devotional  poetry,  under  circumstances 
the  most  disheartening  and  sufferings  the  most  oppressive. 
Should  any  fragment  of  this  little  book,  remembered  and 
dwelt  upon  in  moments  of  gloom  and  anxiety,  tend  to 
restore  peace,  to  awaken  fortitude,  to  renew  or  to  create 
confidence  in  heaven,  I  shall  have  obtained  the  boon  for 
which  I  pray, — the  end  to  which  I  aspire. 

These  Hymns  were  not  written  in  the  pursuit  of  fame  or 
literary  triumph.  They  are  full  of  borrowed  images,  of 
thoughts  and  feeling  excited  less  by  my  own  contem- 
plations than  by  the  writings  of  others.  I  have  not  sought 
to  be  original.  To  be  useful  is  my  first  ambition — that 
obtained,  I  am  indifferent  to  the  rest. 


CONTENTS. 


MATINS  AND  VESPERS. 

First  Week Spring    pp.  3 — 50 

Second  Week Summer 53 — 100 

Third  Week    , .   Autumn 103—148 

Fourth  Week    Winter    151 — 194 


HYMNS  AND  OTHER   DEVOTIONAL  PIECES. 

Night — from  the  German  of  Herder p.  197 

Morning  Thoughts 202 

Evening  Thoughts  on  Death    207 

Written  at  Sea    211 

After  a  Storm 214 

Psalm  xc 218 

Habakkuk,  chap,  iii 221 

1  Corinthians,  chap,  xiii 224 


CONTENTS. 

Anxieties  and  Comforts    p.  227 

Siste,  Viator  ! 231 

Blessings  of  Instruction 235 

Sonnet 239 

Hymns 240  &  242 

Death   '.  ....  244 

Hymns   246—254 

Saturday  Night 254 


FIRST    WEEK. 


SPRING. 


MATINS   AND  VESPERS. 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 

Thou  whose  high  praise  in  heaven  and  earth  is  sung, 
Each  heart  pervading,  tuning  every  tongue ; 
Thou,  whom  my  soul  devoutly  would  confess 
In  joy's  bright  hour — nor  in  affliction's  less ; 
Whose  mercy  in  the  sunshine  and  the  storm 
Alike  is  active — whose  invisible  form 
Rides  in  the  hurricane  ; — Thou,  whose  depths  pro- 
found, 
And  heights  sublime,  not  earth  nor  heaven  can  sound ; 
Infinite  power,  and  goodness  without  bound  ! 
Thou  unseen  cause,  conductor,  end  of  all, 
We  know  Thee  not — yet  God  and  Father  call. 
We  know  Thee  not — but  know  and  feel  Thou  art ! 
Our  eye  can  see  Thee  not— but,  Lord !  our  heart 
Is  touched  as  with  Thy  Spirit — and  even  now 
I  feel  Thee — feel  Thee  in  this  holy  glow. 
b  2 


4  SUNDAY    MORNING. 

A  peace  which  none  but  Thou    couldst  give  inspires 

My  bosom ;  heavenly  aspiration  fires 

My  towering  thoughts.—  O  God !  what  breath  but 

Could  kindle  aspirations  so  divine !  [Thine 

Benignant  condescension  !  that  Thy  ray 

Should  send  its  brightness  thro'  a  clod  of  clay, 

And  raise  to  Thy  abode — to  Heaven — to  Thee — 

The  poor,  weak  children  of  mortality ! 

Thus  privileged,  let  my  spirit-rousing  thought, 

Which  vainly  seeks  to  praise  Thee  as  it  ought, 

Pour  forth  its  humble  strains. — Eternal  Lord ! 

Thy  majesty  might  crush  the  embryo-word 

With  its  gigantic  presence  ;  but  Thy  love 

Gives  it  a  voice,  and  wafts  its  tones  above. 

Grant  me,   Eternal  One !  Thy  light  to  cheer, 

Thy  hand  to  guide  me,  while  I  journey  here  ; 

Thy  grace  to  help,  Thy  peace  my  soul  to  fill, 

And  sorrow's  storm  may  thunder  if  it  will. 

I  am  supported  by  Thy  holy  arm — 

The  cloud  may  burst — but,  O,  it  cannot  harm. 

I  say  not,  "  Shield  me,  Father,  from  distress,'' 
But,  "  Wake  my  heart  to  truth  and  holiness." 


SUNDAY    EVENING.  i 

I  ask  not  that  my  earthly  course  may  run 

Cloudless — but,  humbly,  "  Let  Thy  will  be  done." 

The  peace  the  world  can  give  not  nor  destroy, 

The  love  which  is  the  greatest,  and  the  joy 

That's  given  to  angels — these,  and  such  as  these, 

Be  mine ; — the  vain  world's  fleeting  \anities — 

Pomps,  pleasures,  riches,  honours,  glory,  pride, 

(Idols  by  man's  perverseness  deified) 

I  emy  not. — Do  Thou  my  steps  control — 

Erect  devotion's  temple  in  my  soul ; 

And  there,  my  God !  my  King !  unrivalFd  sway  : 

So  let  existence,  like  a  sabbath  day, 

Glide  softly  by,  and  let  that  temple  be 

A  shrine  devoted  all  to  truth  and  Thee. 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

How  shall  I  praise  Thee,  Lord  of  light  ? 
How  shall  I  all  Thy  love  declare  % 
Thy  earth  is  veil'd  in  the  shades  of  night ; 
But  Thy  heaven  is  open  to  my  prayer. 


D  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

That  heaven,  so  bright  with  stars  and  suns — 
That  glorious  heaven,  which  knows  no  bound  ; 
Where  the  full  tide  of  being  runs, 
And  life  and  beauty  glow  around  ; 
From  thence — Thy  seat  of  light  divine, 
Circled  by  thousand  streams  of  bliss 
Which  calmly  flow  and  brightly  shine — 
Say,  to  a  world  so  mean  as  this, 
Canst  Thou  direct  Thy  pitying  eye  l. 
How  shall  my  thoughts  expression  find, 
All  lost  in  Thy  immensity  ? 
How  shall  I  seek,  Thou  infinite  mind, 
Thy  holy  presence  ?     God  sublime, 
Whose  power  and  wisdom,  love  and  grace, 
Are  greater  than  the  round  of  time, 
And  wider  than  the  bounds  of  space. 

Gently  the  shades  of  night  descend  ; 
Thy  temple,  Lord  !  is  calm  and  still : 
A  thousand  lamps  of  ether  blend, 
A  thousand  fires  that  temple  fill, 
To  honour  Thee ; — 'tis  bright  and  fair. 
As  if  the  very  heavens,  imprest 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

With  Thy  pure  image  smiling  there, 
In  all  their  loveliest  robes  were  drest. 
Yet  Thou  canst  turn  Thy  friendly  eye 
From  that  immeasureable  throne  ; — 
Thou,  smiling  on  humanity, 
Dost  claim  earth's  children  for  Thy  own, 
And  gently,  kindly  lead  them  thro' 
Life's  varied  scenes  of  joy  and  gloom  ; 
Till  evening's  pale  and  pearly  dew 
Tips  the  green  sod  that  decks  their  tomb. 

Thou,  Father !  hast  a  gentle  breath 
That  bears  our  soaring  souls  on  higfh  ; 
Thy  angels  watch  the  bed  of  death, 
Thy  torch  directs  us  to  the  sky. 
Thou  bidst  the  cares  of  earth  depart — 
Heaven's  peace  is  wafted  from  above ; 
A  sabbath-stillness  fills  my  heart — 
Devotion's  calm,  and  virtue's  love. 
Thy  laws  with  rays  divine  illume  ; 
Sweet  is  thy  call,  thy  burthen  light, 
Thy  words  like  heavenly  music  come, 
Thy  promise  like  a  seraph  bright. 


8  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

And  Thou,  from  Thy  subliraest  height 

Of  glory— in  thy  mercy  deignest 

Earth- wandering  pilgrims  to  invite 

Tow'rds  the  blest  palace  where  Thou  reignest. 

And  man — a  speck  of  dust — may  rise, 

Borne  on  the  pinions  of  thy  grace, 

Up  to  angelic  mysteries  : 

Heaven  is  his  home — his  resting  place. 

Even  as  the  seed  that  autumn's  breath 
On  to  its  destined  dwelling  bears, 
Springs  from  its  earthy  tomb  beneath, 
Awl  its  fair  nrown  of  beauty  r^ars  : 
Mortality  itself  contains 
The  germ  of  immortality, 
And  bursts  life's  cold  and  fettering  chains, 
Rising  from  mortal  bondage  free. 
Not  ours  alone  a  varying  doom, 
Checkered  with  fleeting  joys  and  cares; 
For  us  the  portals  of  the  tomb 
Lead  onwards  to  eternal  years. 

When  trembling  on  the  awful  bourn 
Which  bounds  life's  transitory  stage, 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

Tranquil  my  dying  thoughts  shall  turn 
Back  on  the  well-spent  pilgrimage  : 
While  visions,  robed  in  glory  bright, 
Beam  thro'  life's  evening-shades  serene, 
From  heaven's  eternal  isles  of  light ! 
What  tho'  the  waters  roll  between  ? 
The  arm  that  oft  hath  saved,  shall  save  ; 
Death  has  no  terrors  now  for  me — 
Where  is  thy  sting,  O  where  ?  thou  grave ! 

0  death !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
Methinks  I  see  the  flow'rets  bloom 
Even  now  on  Eden's  vernal  shore ; 
Methinks  I  feel  the  breezes  come 

To  waft  th'  enfranchised  prisoner  o'er — 

Methinks  a  light  as  soft  as  sweet 

jS  miles  on  me  as  the  pale  moon's  ray ; 

Methinks  I  hear  the  angels  greet, 

44  Come  hither,  Spirit,  come!  " — they  say. 

1  hasten  :  as  my  eye  grows  dim 
And  darkens  on  this  fading  sphere, 
1  see  the  smiling  seraphim 

Wax  more  and  more  resplendent  there, 
b  5 


10  MONDAY    MORNING. 

And  as  my  ear  grows  deaf  and  dull 
To  the  vain  sounds  of  earthly  art, 
The  music,  soft  and  beautiful, 
Of  heaven  absorbs  my  raptured  heart. 


MONDAY    MORNING. 

Thou,  Lord!  art  all  in  all — and  man  is  nought: 
For  tho'  in  privileged  hours  his  soaring  thought 
Would  seem  to  catch  a  glance  of  Thee — Thy  light 
Soon  becomes  dazzling,  and  he  sinksi  n  night. 
Yes  !  we  are  blind — and  when  we  most  aspire, 
Most  feel  our  weakness  and  our  vain  desire. 
We  trace  the  comets  in  their  orbits — fly 
From  star  to  star,  across  the  crowded  sky, 
And,  far  beyond  what  natural  powers  discern, 
Guided  by  art,  we  nature's  mysteries  learn  : 
But  when  we  think  of  Thee — confounded,  lost, 
From  one  proud  billow  to  another  tost, 
Our  reason  wrecked — the  horizon  shaded  o'er, 
We  dash  upon  a  dark  and  dangerous  shore. 


MONDAY    MORNING.  11 

What  art  Thou,  Lord  ?  By  what  high  name — what 
Of  majesty,  shall  we  address  Thee,  Lord  ?       [word 
God  !  awful  sound — recess  of  mystery ! 
God  !  what  strange  notions  of  infinity, 
Infinity  of  wisdom,  power,  and  love, 
Thro'  the  still'd  heart  in  shadowy  visions  move- 
Linked  with  all  space,  all  being,  deep  and  vast : 
'Tis  a  vague  sense  of  future  and  of  past — 
Of  things  beyond  the  stars — of  death — of  birth — 
Of  a  winged  Spirit  wandering  o'er  the  earth — 
Travelling  from  sun  to  sun — of  whispering  wind — 
Of  thunder — of  a  more  than  mortal  mind, 
That  sometimes  visits  man : — a  rolling  flood 
Invisible — an  infinite  tide  of  good, 
O'erflowing  all — a  presence  in  the  air, 
Upon  the  land,  the  waters,  every  where ! 
God !  God !  word  written  on  the  waves — imprest 
Upon  fair  Nature's  universal  breast, — 
Wafted  by  every  breeze,  and  borne  along 
By  every  motion  that  has  sense  or  song — 
Splendent  above,  and  beautiful  below, 
The  soul  of  all  the  universe  art  Thou  ! 


12  MONDAY    MORNING. 

We  find  Thee  there — we  revel  in  the  thought — 
Forgive  the  daring,  Lord !  we  know  Thee  not. 
When  man  has  scaled  the  heavens,  and  weighed  the 
And  visited  the  stars — then,  Infinite  One  !  [sun, 

Then  may  he,  then,  tho'  still  unworthily, 
Lift  up  his  thoughts  and  turn  his  eyes  to  Thee ; 
To  Thee,  whose  glorious  brightness  human  eye 
Ne'er  gazed  on  yet  in  its  intensity. 

0  God  !  I  tremble  when  on  Thee  I  think  : 

1  feel,  as  if  I  shuddered  on  the  brink 
Of  profanation — yet  I  love  Thee : — read 
My  doubting,  fearing  heart — it  loves  indeed  ! 
Loves,  and  would  fain  obey — O  touch  the  chord 
That  vibrates  at  Thy  name, — and  tune  it,  Lord  ! 
To  reverence  and  to  virtue  : — all  beside — 

The  vain  desires  of  folly  or  of  pride — 
All,  all  I  throw,  an  offering  at  Thy  feet — 
Accept  that  homage,  Being  Infinite ! 


13 


MONDAY    EVENING. 

My  eye  looked  round  upon  the  vast  expanse 
Of  glorious  Nature — and  my  raptured  vision 
Revelling  in  the  early  day-beams'  waken'd  glance, 
Saw  rocks,  and  streams,  and  woods — like  scenes 

elysian, 
Uncurtained  slowly  from  the  realms  of  sleep : 
There  the  sun  drove  his  golden  chariot  proudly, 
And  the  sonorous  ocean  thundered  loudly, 
What  time  the  waters  rushing  down  the  steep 
Lifted  their  voice  harmonious — every  where 
The  spirit  of  love  was  brooding — and  the  smile 
Of  vernal  freshness  and  of  beauty  rare  : 
There  was  a  gentle  music  in  the  air, 
That  hung  around  the  mist-robed  mountains,  while 
A  calm  and  quiet  influence  seemed  to  breathe 
In  fragrance  o'er  the  vales  and  on  the  hills  : 
The  dews  had  hung  up  many  a  diamond  wreath 
On  herbs  and  budding  flowers — and  the  meek  rills 
Trembled  at  morning's  first  salute,  and  thrilled 


14  MONDAY    EVENING. 

And  murmured  joy. — Slowly  and  silently 

The  vapours  which  the  bosom  of  earth  had  filled, 

Melted  away  in  light!— the  all-present  eye 

Of  heaven  beamed  brightly  :  and  methought  the  day 

Looked  beautiful  as  when  an  infant  wakes 

From  its  soft  slumbers — and  in  every  ray 

I  traced  the  visible  presence — dark  and  dim — 

But  still  the  presence  visible  of  Him, 

At  whose  first  call  the  early  morning  breaks 

Thro'  twilight's  curtain. — Higher  yet,  and  higher, 

Rose  the  great  central  orb  above  our  globe, 

Till  heaven  was  girded  with  one  azure  robe, 

And  none  could  look  upon  that  throne  of  fire, 

On  which  perchance  some  spirit  sits,  and  keeps 

An  awful  reckoning  with  our  earthly  sphere  : 

For  the  great  eye  that  sees  us  never  sleeps ; 

It  has  its  ministering  angels  wheresoe'er 

Existence  is — beneath  us,  and  above, 

Around  us  and  within  us,  He  has  there 

His  delegates.    They  watch  us  when  we  rove, 

And  to  the  oft-abandoned,  narrow  track 

Of  truth  and  virtue,  gently  call  us  back  : 


MONDAY    EVENING.  15 

They  read  our  thoughts — our  actions  they  record, 
And  bear  the  transcript  of  each  idle  word 
Up  to  the  great  tribunal. — Now  the  Noon, 
Wearied  with  sultry  toil,  declines  and  falls 
Into  the  mellow  Eve : — the  West  puts  on 
Her  gorgeous  beauties — palaces  and  halls 
And  towers,  all  carved  of  the  unstable  cloud, 
Welcome  the  calmly  waning  monarch — he 
Sinks  gently  'midst  that  glorious  canopy 
Down  on  his  couch  of  rest— even  like  a  proud 
King  of  the  earth — the  Ocean. — He  being  gone, 
All  his  attendant  ministers  take  their  flight, 
And  leave  the  dark  and  desolate  Earth  alone — 
To  allt  he  gloom  and  horror  of  the  Night. 
But  no  !  for  He  who  made  that  glowing  Sun, 
Still  watches  o'er  His  children — and  He  spreads 
A  roll  of  starry  brightness  o'er  our  heads, 
Waking  the  stars  and  planets  one  by  one. 

So  rolls  the  varying  day — and  morn  and  noon 
And  even-tide  and  night — alike  proclaim 
The  ne'er-decaying  splendour  of  His  name  ; 
His  love,  that's  never  wearied,  shed  on  man; 


16  TUESDAY    MORNING. 

The  never-bounded  influence  of  His  might ; 
The  never-erring  wisdom  of  His  plan. 
In  Him,  all,  all  is  glory — knowledge — light — 
Truth — beauty — joy  :  and,  both  in  what  we  see 
And  what  we  see  not — both  in  what  we  know 
And  what  we  know  not — kindness,  mercy,  glow 
In  the  refulgence  of  Infinity. 


TUESDAY   MORNING. 

When  the  arousing  call  of  Morn 
Breaks  o'er  the  hills,  and  day  new  born 
Comes  smiling  from  the  purple  east, 
And  the  pure  streams  of  liquid  light 
Bathe  all  the  earth — renew'd  and  bright, 
Uprising  from  its  dream  of  rest — 


TUESDAY    MORNING. 


17 


O  how  delightful  then,  how  sweet, 
Again  to  feel  life's  pulses  beat ; 
Again  life's  kindly  warmth  to  prove  ; 
To  drink  anew  of  pleasure's  spring  ; 
Again  our  matin  song  to  sing 
To  the  great  Cause  of  light  and  love ! 


To  Him,  whom  comet,  planet,  star, 
Sun,  moon,  in  their  sweet  courses  far, 
Praise  in  eternal  homage  meet ; 
While  thousand  choirs  of  seraphs  bring 
Their  sounding  harps  of  gold — and  fling 
Their  crowns  of  glory  at  His  feet. 


Thou !  who  didst  wake  me  first  from  nought, 
And  lead  my  heaven-aspiring  thought 
To  some  faint,  feeble,  glimpse  of  Thee  : 
Thou !  who  didst  touch  my  slumbering  heart 
With  Thy  own  hand — and  didst  impart 
A  portion  of  Thy  deity  : 


18  TUESDAY    MORNING. 

O  teach  me,  Father !  while  I  feel 
TV  impress  of  Thy  glorious  seal— 
And  whence  I  came — and  whither  tend 
Teach  me  to  live — to  act — to  be 
Worthy  my  origin,  and  Thee, 
And  worthy  my  immortal  end. 


O  not  in  vain  to  me  be  given 

The  joys  of  earth — the  hopes  of  heaven  ! 

O  not  in  vain  may  I  receive 

My  master's  talents — but,  subdued 

And  tutored  by  the  soul  of  good, 

To  God — to  bliss — to  virtue  live  ! 


Heaven's  right-lined  path  may  I  discern, 
Nor,  led  by  pride  or  folly,  turn 
A  handbreadth  from  the  onward  road  ; 
Fight  the  good  fight — the  foe  subdue, 
And  wear  the  heavenly  garland  too — 
A  garland  from  the  hand  of  God  ! 


19 


TUESDAY    EVENING. 

Tis  now  the  solemn  hour,  when  spirits  come 
To  alarm  credulity — 'tis  now  the  hour, 
When  disembodied  ghosts  have  awful  power 
To  burst  the  imprisoning  portals  of  the  tomb. 
Such  vain  creations  from  the  midnight's  womb 
Has  superstition  summoned,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  hideous  forms  that  fear  has  made. 

Spirits  there  are  indeed  that  walk  the  night, — 
Not  such  as  these — but  heavenly  spirits,  that  call, 
In  nature's  ever  eloquent  tongues,  on  all, 
To  wing  themselves  for  a  diviner  flight. 
The  wise  man  hears  their  voices  :  darkness,  light, 
Are  to  him  equally  momentous  things, 
And  each  a  monitory  warning  brings 
From  the  other  side  of  death.    The  sun  goes  down  ; 
But  truth,  that  never  sleeps,  still  rides  sublime 
Thro'  all  the  strange  vicissitudes  of  time — 
Speaks  in  the  noon-tide's  smile,  the  midnight's  frown. 


20 


TUESDAY    EVENING. 


Now  in  the  stillness  of  the  eve  serene, 
The  calm  of  meek  devotion's  influence, 
Upsoaring  from  this  dark  imprisoning  scene, 
Appealing  from  what  is,  and  what  has  been, 
To  that  which  shall  be — from  a  world  of  sense, 
To  a  spiritual  world;  and  summoning  down  from 

thence 
Rays  of  the  light  that  gilds  that  holy  place — 
I  turn  my  thoughts,  appalling  Power  !  to  Thee. 
Appalling  Power !  Thy  awful  majesty 
Might  scatter  us  in  dust — but,  lo !  Thy  grace, 
Milder  and  softer  than  the  early  dew, 
Invites  us  to  Thy  presence.     Lord  !  forgive 
Thy  trembling  children — Father  !  Friend !  receive 
Their  tribute,  humble  and  unworthy  too. 

'Tis  sweet,  in  journeying  thro'  this  vale  of  tears, 
To  gather  its  fair  flowers  ;  to  pay,  and  prove 
Blessings  and  sympathies,  and  acts  of  love, 
And  so  to  sink  into  the  lap  of  years  : 
But  sweeter,  when  life's  evening  star  appears, 
To  see  religious,  holy  visions  bright, 
Hover  on  wings  of  righteousness  and  light, 


TUESDAY     EVENING. 


21 


Smiling  kind  invitations  from  above. 

What  tho'  a  thousand  or  ten  thousand  graves 

Arrest  our  stumbling  footsteps — they  are  nought 

But  seats  of  rest,  where  the  life-wearied  thought 

Reposes — while  divinest  glory  waves 

Her  palms  of  triumph  o'er  the  grassy  heaps. — 

Life's  journey  is  oft  wearisome  and  wild ; 

And  there  Affliction's  tired  and  troubled  child 

On  the  composing  bosom  of  nature  sleeps. 

There  is  a  land,  where  everlasting  suns 
Shed  everlasting  brightness — where  the  soul 
Drinks  from  the  living  streams  of  love,  that  roll 
By  the  throne  of  God  ! — myriads  of  glorious  ones 
Bring  there  th'  accepted  offering.    O  how  blest 
To  look  from  this  dark  prison  to  that  shrine, 
T'  inhale  one  breath  of  paradise  divine — 
And  enter  into  that  eternal  rest 
Which  waits  the  sons  of  God.     Remote  from  care, 
Remote  from  disappointment,  to  employ 
Hours  never-ending  in  the  palace  of  joy, 
And  wear  a  crown  of  heavenly  splendour  there ! 

With  such  a  destiny,  what  earthly  fear, 


22  WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

What  earthly  woe,  shall  cloud  my  spirit  ?  None. 
Forward,  then,  forward  to  the  golden  throne ! 
Why  should  our  restless  wishes  linger  here  ! 
See  from  the  clouds  a  smiling  angel  calls, 
"  Come  hither,  Christian! — Open  is  the  door — 
The  path  is  strait— delay  not — doubt  no  more — 
Lo  !  thou  art  welcome  to  the  heavenly  halls." 
Father — I  go ! — I  hear  th'  inviting  sound — 
No  more  shall  earthly  objects  dim  my  eyes — 
Away,  away  the  world's  dull  vanities  ! 
I  hasten  on — to  heaven — to  Eden  bound. 


WEDNESDAY   MORNING. 

When  the  Morn  peeps  over  the  mountain's  height, 

And  the  latest  star  has  left  the  sky, 

And  the  dews  disperse  at  the  glance  of  light, 

And  Earth  puts  on  her  robes  of  joy, 

And  the  flowers  look  out,  and  the  woods  are  gay 

With  birds  and  breezes — O,  'tis  meet 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

To  join  the  universal  lay, 
And  Nature's  chorus  to  repeat ; 
To  lead  the  aspiring  soul  to  Him, 
Whose  is  the  darkness,  whose  the  day — 
Who  kindled  first  the  sunny  beam ; 
Pour'd  forth  the  wand'ring  milky  way ; 
Fill'd  all  heaven's  lamps  with  ether;  spread 
The  canopy  above — whose  hand 
The  valleys  and  the  mountains  weigh'd — 
Fathom'd  the  ocean — rear'd  the  land, 
And  crowded  all  with  life  and  bliss. 
See  life  and  bliss  around  us  glowing  ! 
Wherever  space  or  being  is, 
The  cup  of  joy  is  full  and  flowing. 
Yes  !  Nature  is  a  splendid  show, 
Where  an  attentive  mind  may  hear 
Music  in  all  the  winds  that  blow — 
And  see  a  silent  worshipper 
In  every  flower,  on  every  tree, 
In  every  vale,  on  every  hill — 
Perceive  a  choir  of  melody 
In  waving  grass  or  whispering  rill ; 


24  WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

And  catch  a  soft  but  solemn  sound 
Of  worship  from  the  smallest  fly, 
The  cricket  chirping  on  the  ground, 
The  trembling  leaf  that  hangs  on  high. 

Proud,  scornful  man !  thy  soaring  wing 
Would  hurry  towards  Infinity  ; 
And  yet  the  vilest,  meanest  thing 
Is  too  sublime,  too  deep  for  thee  ; 
And  all  thy  vain  imagining 
Lost  in  the  smallest  speck  we  see. 
It  must  be  so — for  He,  even  He 
Who  worlds  created,  form'd  the  worm — 
He  pours  the  dew,  who  filPd  the  sea — 
Breathes  from  the  flower,  who  rules  the  storm 
Him  .we  may  worship — not  conceive  ; 
See  not  and  hear  not — but  adore. 
Bow  in  the  dust — obey — believe — 
Utter  His  name — and  know  no  more. 

His  throne  is  o'er  the  highest  star 
That  wanders  heaven's  blue  vault  along  ; 
He  drives  unseen  His  glorious  car 
A  million  viewless  worlds  among. 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING.  25 

A  thousand— aye!  ten  thousand  suns 
Are  darkness  in  His  piercing  eye  ! 
Thy  life  runs  on — and  while  it  runs, 
Vainly  to  know  Him  dost  thou  try  : 
That  is  a  bliss  for  realms  on  high, 
When  thou  shalt  breathe  diviner  air, 
And  drink  of  heaven's  felicity ; 
For  knowledge  knows  no  boundary  there. 

O,  if  joy  be  here  thy  doom, 
Give  it  anchorage  above  ; 
If  thy  path  be  dark  with  gloom, 
Steal  a  ray  from  heavenly  love. 
Source  of  joy  ! — my  friend!  my  father ! 
In  Thy  presence  let  me  be, — 
Here  the  flowers  of  Virtue  gather, 
Blooming  for  eternity. 


26 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 

Almighty  Being!  wise  and  holy 
Who  hast  to  each  his  portion  given ; 
To  the  poor  worm  his  station  lowly, 
And  to  the  choirs  of  angels — heaven  ; 
My  fate  is  in  Thy  righteous  keeping, 
Ruler  of  worlds ! — unbounded  One ! 
WTiile  to  weak  man,  in  error  sleeping, 
Thy  awful  course  is  all  unknown  ; 
Far  from  Thy  light  immortal  streaming, 
From  heaven, — resplendently  afar, 
Man's  ray  is  but  the  feeble  gleaming 
Of  evening's  palest,  farthest  star 
With  hope  upon  his  path  descending, 
Life's  darkness  soon  gives  way  to  light  ; 
Some  holy  sunbeams  hither  tending, 
Chase  the  dark  clouds  of  doubt,  of  night. 
O,  had  our  journey,  wasting,  weary, 
No  ray  like  these  to  gild  the  gloom, 
Life  were  a  desert  dark  and  dreary, 
A  midnight  prison-house — a  tomb ! 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING.  27 

Merciful  Being  !  friend  and  father, 

To  Thee  I  look,  to  Thee  I  call ; 

On  Thee  I  rest  my  spirit,  rather 

Than  on  this  transient  world,  or  all 

The  world's  foundations.     Thou,  who  kindly 

Smilest  on  my  path,  conduct  me  still ; 

Conduct  me,  while  fatigued  and  blindly 

I  climb  up  life's  deceitful  hill  ; 

Wave  Thy  pure  wand  of  mercy  o'er  me, 

And  form  me  to  Thy  holy  will : 

Thy  hope  shall  sweetly  play  before  me, 

Thy  light  my  little  lamp  shall  fill. 

Could  I  control  my  future  being, 

No  thought  of  pride  should  e'er  rebel  ; 

Thou ,  all-designing — guiding — seeing, 

Wilt  direct  all  things  wisely,  well. 

Disturb  not,  dreams  of  care !  to-morrow ; 

Enough  the  evil  of  to-day  : 

My  destined  sum  of  joy  and  sorrow 

The  scales  of  perfect  wisdom  weigh. 

He,  for  ten  thousand  worlds  providing, 

Yet  condescends  to  think  of  me ! 

C  2 


28  THURSDAY    MORNING. 

My  little  skiff  securely  guiding 

O'er  Time's  now  still,  now  troubled  sea; 

Calm  as  the  night,  and  soft  and  vernal 

As  the  spring's  breath,  my  bark  shall  move, 

Till,  lanched  into  the  gulf  eternal, 

It  anchors  in  a  port  above. 


THURSDAY    MORNING. 

The  heavens,  O  Lord  !  Thy  power  proclaim, 
And  the  earth  echoes  back  Thy  name  ; 
Ten  thousand  voices  speak  Thy  might, 
And  day  to  day,  and  night  to  night, 
Utter  Thy  praise, — Thou  Lord  above, 
Thy  praise — Thy  glory — and  Thy  love. 

All  things  I  see,  or  hear,  or  feel, 
Thy  wisdom,  goodness,  power  reveal. 
The  silent  crescent  hung  on  high, 
So  calmly  sailing  through  the  sky 
The  lowliest  flower  that  lights  the  dells , 
The  lightest  wave  the  stream  that  swells  ; 


THURSDAY    MORNING.  29 


The  breeze  that  o'er  the  garden  plays  ; 
The  farthest  planet's  glimmering  rays  ; 
The  dew  upon  the  distant  hill ; 
The  vapours  that  the  valley  fill ; 
The  grove's  untutored  harmony — 
All  speak, — and  loudly  speak  of  Thee. 


Thy  name,  Thy  glories,  they  rehearse, 
Proud  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Sense  of  all  sense,  and  Soul  of  soul, 
Nought  is  too  vast  for  Thy  control  ; 
The  meanest  and  the  mightiest  share 
Alike  thy  kindness  and  thy  care. 


Beneath  Thy  all-directing  nod, 
Both  worlds  and  worms  are  equal,  God ! 
Thy  hand  the  comets'  orbits  drew, 
And  lighted  yonder  glow-worm  too  ; 
Thou  didst  the  dome  of  heaven  build  up, 
And  form'dst  yon  snow-drop's  silver  cup. 


30  THURSDAY    MORNING. 

And  nature  with  its  countless  throng, 
And  sun  and  moon  and  planets'  song, 
And  every  flower  that  light  receives, 
And  every  dew  that  tips  its  leaves, 
And  every  murmur  of  the  sea — 
Tunes  its  sweet  voice  to  worship  Thee. 


Yes !  all  below  and  all  above. 

Drink  of  Thy  flowing  stream  of  love  ; 

Yes !  wheresoe'er  existence  is, 

There,  there  is  greatness,  hope  and  bliss 

There  never  was  a  mortal  eye 

Which  has  not  shone  with  smiles  of  joy. 


And  all  are  bending  to  the  spot 
Where  disappointment  enters  not ; 
The  seed  of  man's  mortality 
Shall  on  earth's  bosom  scattered  be, 
And  from  its  germes  at  last  arise 
Fair  blossoms,  fit  for  paradise. 


THURSDAY    MORNING.  31 

And  we,  creation's  princes,  we 

The  favourites  of  the  Deity, 

The  wise — the  strong — whose  thoughts  can  soar 

Heaven's  brightest,  highest  concave  o'er  ; 

And  hold,  above  created  things, 

Communion  with  the  King  of  kings — 


Shall  we  not  praise  and  worship  Thee, 
Thou  infinite  Divinity ! 
Thank  Thee  for  what  we  know — and  own 
Thou  hidest  what  is  best  unknown  ; 
And  kindly,  wisely,  hast  concealed 
The  future,  from  our  vision  veiled  ? 


Shall  we  disturb  the  harmony 
Which  all  creation  tunes  to  Thee  ; 
Those  sweet  concordant  notes,  that  sound 
The  arched  hall  of  nature  round, 
That  fill  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  air, 
And  reach  Thy  throne — accepted  there  ? 


32  THURSDAY    EVENING. 

No  :   rather  our  according  voice 
Shall  in  the  general  praise  rejoice, 
And  join  the  ever-during  hymu 
With  cherubim  and  seraphim — 
With  all  to  whom  a  tongue  is  given, 
To  worship  Thee,  the  Lord  of  heaven. 


THURSDAY    EVENING. 

Peace  has  beneath  the  stars  her  seat, 
Bliss  looks  smiling  from  on  high, 
When  the  spirit  holds  communion  sweet 
With  the  brighter  spirits  of  the  sky. 
The  earth  is  resting  calmly  now 
Beneath  the  curtained  shade  of  night, 
And  the  sun  behind  the  mountain's  brow 
Has  veil'd  his  last  and  lingering  light. 

Reviving  sleep !  thy  sheltering  wing 
Is  over  the  couch  of  labour  spread ; 
Sweetest  of  visitants — lovely  thing — 
Hovering  o'er  the  weary  one's  head. 


THURSDAY    EVENING. 

Calm  and  cold,  as  the  relic  of  clay 
When  life  is  fled — the  tired  earth  sleeps  ; 
When  evening  veils  the  eye  of  day, 
And  darkness  frowns  o'er  the  ocean  deeps. 

But,  like  lights  that  burn  'neath  a  temple's  arch, 

Ten  thousand  stars  are  shining  round, 

And  all  on  their  silent  splendid  march 

Thy  everlasting  praise  resound. 

And  a  thousand,  thousand  joyful  tongues 

Are  heard  in  the  heaven  when  earth  is  still ; 

And  the  echoes  of  unnumbered  songs 

The  vast  extent  of  nature  fill. 

O  then  Thy  spirit,  O  Lord !  anew 
Infuses  its  strength  into  sleeping  men ; 
It  sleeps  not : — it  falls  in  the  evening  dew — 
And  repairs  the  waste  of  life  again. 
While  peace  and  joy  o'er  the  deep  repose 
Look  mildly  from  their  tranquil  throne, 
In  sleep  a  million  eyelids  close — 
But  the  Uncreated  watches  alone. 
c  5 


34  THURSDAY    EVKNING. 

Blessing,  preserving,  protecting  all, 

The  night  and  the  day  His  presence  inspires ; 

He  sits  in  his  glorious  star-roofed  hall, 

And  never  slumbers  and  never  tires  : 

No  rest  e'er  requites  his  ceaseless  toil — 

Can  He  be  wearied,  that  He  should  rest  1 

Mortals  may  sink  to  repose  awhile  ; 

The  Immortal  One  reigns  untired  and  blest. 

Then,  ever  unshaken,  let  me  pursue 

My  journey,  from  folly's  slavery  free; 

Throw  off  my  chain — and  again  renew 

My  onward  course  to  eternity. 

Be  the  calm  repose  of  nature  mine — 

And  lead  me  gently  to  the  last, 

Until  I  shall  hear  Thy  voice  divine — 

"  Awake!  for  the  slumber  of  death  is  past." 


35 


FRIDAY   MORNING. 

Ps.  104. 
Sing  thy  Creator's  praise,  and  own 
Him  greatest — wisest — God  alone. 
He  wraps  himself  in  robes  of  light, 
And,  clothed  in  garments  pure  and  bright 
Of  honour  and  of  majesty, 
He  makes  the  skies  His  canopy. 

The  pillars  of  His  temple  are 

Built  on  the  ocean  ;  and  His  car, 

The  clouds  of  heaven.     Th'  Eternal  Mind 

Rides  on  the  pinions  of  the  wind  : 

A  thousand  spirits  wait  His  will, 

And,  touched  with  fire,  His  word  fulfil. 

Thou  rear'dst  the  universe  sublime 
On  arches  of  unshaken  time— 
And  wrap'dst  this  vast  terraqueous  globe 
With  the  deep  waters  as  a  robe — 
And  badst  the  eternal  hills  sustain 
The  o'erhanging  pregnant  clouds  of  rain. 


6b  FRIDAY    MORNING. 

At  Thy  decree  the  waters  fall — 
They  hasten  at  Thy  thunder's  call ; 
Down  from  the  rocky  heights  they  gush, 
And  thro'  the  thirsty  valleys  rush 
On  to  the  vast  receptacle, 
Where  Thou  hast  bid  the  waters  dwell. 


There  hast  Thou  girt  them  with  a  shore, 
That  they  may  flood  the  earth  no  more  : 
While  thousand  and  ten  thousand  rills, 
Wandering  among  the  mazy  hills, 
Fresh  from  their  sparkling  fountain  burst, 
Where  the  wild  asses  quench  their  thirst. 


'Tis  there,  along  the  streamlet's  side, 
The  winged  fowls  of  heaven  abide  ; 
Among  the  waving  boughs  they  sing, 
That  overhang  the  crystal  spring  ; 
The  hills  are  watered  from  above, 
And  earth  reflects  a  heaven  of  love. 


FRIDAY    MORNING.  37 


He  bids  the  emerald  verdure  grow, 
He  makes  the  smiling  flow'rets  blow  ; 
He  plants  the  roots,  He  sows  the  grain, 
A  common  feast  for  beasts  and  men  ; 
To  each  He  gives  his  portioned  food — 
He,  ever  active,  wise,  and  good  ! 


He  bids  the  loaded  vine  produce. 
For  man  its  generous,  joyous  juice ; 
And  oil  that  makes  his  face  to  shine, 
And  bread  to  nourish- — all  is  Thine, 
Thou  great,  life-giving  Deity  ! 
Yes !  all  we  have  we  owe  to  Thee. 


The  life-sap  at  Thy  bidding  flows 
Thro'  the  young  trees — the  cedar  grows 
On  the  proud  heights  of  Lebanon, 
Which  the  birds  build  their  nests  upon  ; 
While  on  the  tall  and  towering  firs 
The  careful  stork  erecteth  her's. 


38  FRIDAY    MORNING. 

To  the  rude  rocks  the  conies  fly  ; 
The  wild  goats  seek  the  mountains  high 
While  o'er  them  the  benignant  moon 
Shines  mildly — and  the  night,  the  noon, 
In  their  appointed  courses  fall : 
Governed  by  Him  who  governs  all. 


•Tis  night — thou  spread st  the  darkness  deep; 
The  wild  beasts  from  their  hidings  creep, 
And  the  young  lions  seek  their  prey 
From  their  Creator — till  the  ray 
Of  morning  calmly  dawns,  and  then 
They  slumber  in  their  lairs  again. 


Man  to  his  daily  labour  goes, 
Until  the  evening  brings  repose. 
O  Lord !  how  great,  how  manifold 
Thy  works,  how  glorious  and  untold  ; 
Their  ever-during  songs  proclaim 
The  vast  perfections  of  Thy  name. 


FRIDAY    MORXIXG.  39 

The  mighty,  the  unbounded  sea, 
(Image  of  Thy  immensity!) 
FilPd  with  ten  thousand  creatures — all 
Sharing  Thy  care,  the  great,  the  small ; 
The  whale's  gigantic  mass — the  swarms 
Of  unseen  myriads'  insect-forms. 


The  ships  the  busy  billows  crowd ; 
And  'midsl  the  waters  rushing  loud, 
(He  owns  not  the  control  of  man) 
The  huge,  the  dread  leviathan, 
Sits  on  his  ever-shifting  throne, 
And  claims  that  kingdom  for  his  own. 


On  Thee  they  wait,  on  Thee  depend — 
While  Thou,  their  ever  present  friend, 
Provid'st  their  food  ; — Thy  plenteous  hand, 
Outstretched,  fills  all  the  sea,  the  land, 
With  good — which  they,  delighted,  gather 
From  Thy  great  store,  Thou  gracious  Father ! 


40 

Thy  face  is  hidden — darkness  clouds 

The  trembling  earth  ; — Thy  frowning  shrouds 

Existence  with  its  gloom ; — Thy  ray 

Is  hidden  from  them — they  decay : 

Thou  dost  withdraw  Thy  breath — they  die, 

And  in  the  clayey  valley  lie. 


Thy  Spirit  is  sent  forth  again, 
And  life  resumes  its  joyous  reign  ; 
Again  is  nature's  face  renewed, 
And  love,  and  bliss,  and  gratitude, 
Clad  all  the  face  of  earth  with  light, 
And  hope,  and  bliss,  and  promise  bright. 


His  glory  shall  endure  for  ever — 
His  praise  shall  perish  never,  never. 
Rejoicing  in  His  work,  and  pleased 
With  the  proud  fabric  He  hath  raised, 
Blest  'midst  the  blessings  He  hath  given — 
In  heaven,  directing  all  to  heaven ! 


FRIDAY    MORNING.  41 

A  thousand  worlds  His  presence  greet ; 
The  mountains  smoke  beneath  His  feet ; 
The  earth  His  presence  fears  ; — but  I 
Will  sing  His  praises  joyfully, 
While  I  have  life  or  breath  to  sing, 
In  His  existence  triumphing. 


How  sweet  to  think  of  Him — how  sweet 
To  hold  with  Him  communion  meet, 
In  His  blest  presence  to  rejoice, 
In  His  blest  praise  to  tune  my  voice, 
And  from  His  cup  to  drink  the  stream 
Of  gladness  and  of  joy  supreme  ! 


If  daring  worldly  ones  contemn 

That  Power,  whose  glance  might  scatter  them — 

I,  in  my  honest  purpose,  still 

Will  own  Thy  hand  and  do  Thy  will ; — 

Blest,  blest  unutterably,  to  be 

Devoted,  Lord !  to  truth  and  Thee. 


42 


FRIDAY   EVENING. 

A  holy  stillness  fills  the  sky, 

While  evening  tunes  its  vesper  song, 

And,  like  a  sacred  lamp,  on  high 

The  solitary  moon  is  hung. 

Repose,  upon  her  downy  pinion, 

On  the  tired  pilgrim's  couch  doth  light, 

And  holds  her  undisturbed  dominion, 

Thro'  the  dark  silence  of  the  night. 

O  then  the  spirit  loves  to  turn 

Upon  its  inward  self ;  and  then 

Those  hallowed  fires  of  virtue  burn, 

Which,  born  of  heaven,  ascend  again 

To  their  high  source ; — all  worldly  care, 

All  earth's  pursuits  and  pleasures,  seem 

Unworthy  trifles,  as  they  are, 

Too  grovelling  for  the  soul's  esteem. 

Then  the  divinity  within 

Lights  the  freed  soul,  and  heaven  appears 


FRIDAY    EVENING.  43 

Like  some  fair  star, — the  clouds  between 
Soft  smiling  thro'  the  night  of  years. 
Then  with  new  life  the  spirit  flies 
Up  to  its  primal,  proud  abode  ; 
Reads  all  the  secrets  of  the  skies, 
Holding  high  converse  with  its  God. 
O  let  me  turn  to  heaven  my  eye — 
Heaven  is  my  portion,  is  my  home — 
And,  steering  onward  joyfully, 
Be  welcomed  by  the  harbouring  tomb. 
Thus  in  serenest  holiness 
Let  days  and  nights  roll  sweetly  past ; 
And  if  a  tear — a  tear  of  peace — 
Shall  tremble  in  my  eye  at  last, 
Enough  to  think  that  I  am  Thine — 
Enough  for  sorrow's  darkest  hour — 
If  I  may  call  Thee,  claim  Thee  mine — 
God  of  my  life  !  I  ask  no  more. 
Father  !  O  let  Thy  light,  Thy  love, 
Guard  to  his  tomb  thy  wanderer  ; 
And  when  his  spirit  soars  above, 
Be  all  his  errors  buried  here. 


44  SATURDAY    MORNING. 


SATURDAY    MORNING. 

As  from  the  vapours  of  the  east 
The  sun  in  morning  brightness  steals, 
So  truth  illumes  the  pious  breast, 
When  man  his  inmost  soul  unveils  : 
When  the  still  monitor  within 
Holds  meet  communion  with  his  heart, 
And  self-approval  gilds  the  scene, 
As  hours  and  days  and  weeks  depart. 

How  wise,  departing  weeks  to  call 
To  stern  inquiry's  solemn  bar, 
And  take  a  strict  account  of  all  ; 
For  all  in  heaven  recorded  are : 
The  talents  lost — the  moments  run 
To  waste — the  sins  of  act,  of  thought, 
Ten  thousand  deeds  of  folly  done, 
And  countless  virtues  cherish 'd  not. 


SATURDAY    MORNING,  45 

A  towering  spirit,  born  of  heaven, 
And  tending  up  to  heaven  again, 
By  earthly  cares  and  errors  driven, 
And  chained  to  all  those  errors  vain  ; 
A  temple  worthy  of  a  God, 
Degraded  to  an  earth-worm's  cell ; 
A  soul  sublime — become  a  clod, 
Dark,  heavy,  and  insensible. 

Can  such  a  reckoning  then  appal, 
To  the  heart's  secret  inquest  given  ? 
How  dreadful — if  unveil'd  to  all 
TV  assembled  hosts  of  earth  and  heaven  ! 
Deceive  thee  not,  vain  man !  for  so 
Shall  time  thy  inmost  self  declare, 
And  the  great  day  of  days  shall  show 
Each  vice  thou  wrapp'st  so  fondly  here. 

Delusion  !  rend  the  shading  veil ; 
Hypocrisy,  come  forth — and  pride 
Tby  naked  form  no  more  conceal ; 
Come,  fierce  intolerance  !  nor  hide 


46  SATURDAY    MORNING. 

Thy  serpent-sting  in  folds  of  zeal, 

In  pious  words  thy  tiger-tooth  : 

Come  forth,  ye  long-masked  fiends !  and  feel 

The  all-discovering  touch  of  truth. 

How  many  fancied  saints,  that  wear 

Self-gratulation's  starry  dress, 

Shall  stand  unrobed — astonishd  there, 

In  trembling,  tottering  nakedness ! 

How  many  a  humble  one,  whose  eye 

Scarce  dares  look  up  to  heaven's  bright  throne, 

Shall  bear  the  robes  of  majesty, 

And  put  the  golden  garland  on  ! 


47 


SATURDAY   EVENING. 

Hours,  days,  weeks — so  our  life-term  flows — 

Gently,  as  melt  the  vernal  snows 

Beneath  the  sun  ;  they  pass  away, 

Like  dew-drops  in  the  eye  of  day, 

One  by  one — till  all  are  gone  : — 

The  mists  disperse — the  twilight's  o'er, 

And  the  monarch  bursts  from  the  orient  door, 

And  the  clouds  impede  his  march  no  more. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  man !  and  so 
His  night  of  life  rolls  by, — the  wave 
Of  darkness  sweeps  across  his  grave — 
Then  o'er  the  gloomy  hills  of  snow, 
That  seem  life's  boundary,  brighter  suns 
Emerge  in  glory — ouns  immortal — 
Bursting  thro'  the  deep  tomb's  portal — 
And  the  tide  of  being  runs 
In  living  light — eternal — bright, 
While  everlasting  ages  flow. 


48  SATURDAY    EVENING. 

Why  should  the  grave  be  terrible  ? 

Why  should  it  be  a  word  of  fear, 

Jarring  upon  the  mortal  ear  I 

There  repose  and  silence  dwell : 

The  living  hear  the  funeral  knell, 

But  the  dead  no  funeral  knell  can  hear. 

Does  the  gay  flower  scorn  the  grave  ?  the  dew 

Forget  to  kiss  its  turf !  the  stream 

Refuse  to  bathe  it !  or  the  beam 

Of  moonlight  shun  the  narrow  bed, 

Where  the  tired  pilgrim  rests  his  head  ? 

No  !  the  moon  is  there,  and  smiling  too  ! 

And  the  sweetest  song  of  the  morning  bird 

Is  oft  in  that  ancient  yew-tree  heard ; 

And  there  may  you  see  the  harebell  blue 

Bending  his  light  form— gently — proudly, 

And  listen  to  the  fresh  winds,  loudly 

Playing  around  yon  sod,  as  gay 

As  if  it  were  a  holiday, 

And  children  freed  from  durance  they  : 

But  'tis  the  kingdom  of  decay  ! 

So  is  the  world — and  all  we  see, 

The  sport  of  mutability. 


SATURDAY    EVENING.  49 

Think  ye  the  mountains  never  change, 

Nor  the  vast  ocean  ? 

There's  not  an  hour — but  swift,  and  strange, 

And  secret  workings — the  commotion 

Of  all  the  elements  goes  on  ; — 

There's  not  a  spark  of  yonder  Sun, 

Which  does  not  perish  at  its  birth  : 

For  life  itself  is  but  the  child 

Of  death — and  this  life-giving  Earth 

Is  dissolution's  parent  mild. 

Death  is  the  gate  thro'  which  we  come 

Into  the  world — and  every  day 

We  die — and  when  dissolved  away, 

'Tis  death  conducts  us  to  our  home. 

Death  hath  no  terrors — while  we  are, 

Death  is  not — when  we  cease  to  be, 

Then  death  begins.     Eternity 

Is  life,  not  death.     What  cause  for  fear 

Of  death — when  this  same  death  we  dread, 

Is  life  continuous  :  and  to  die 

Is  but  to  live  immortally  ! 

Here,  every,  every  step  we  tread, 

D 


50  SATURDAY    EVENING. 

Is  on  a  grave— and  every  breath 
Heaved,  is  a  messenger  of  death. 

Tis  well.     If  life  have  a  joy  worth  giving, 
'Tis  not  the  fragile  joy  of  living, 
.Except  as  it  leads  us  to  the  door 
Where  life's  delusions  cheat  no  more  : 
They  will  soon  be  over — and  then,  O  then, 
Rapture  'twill  be  to  live  again, 
Where  man  in  his  glory  shall  inherit 
What's  brightest  and  best  of  his  earthly  spirit  ; 
And  blend — and  not  in  a  perishing  hour — 
Beauty  and  wisdom,  and  light  and  power. 


SECOND    WEEK. 


SUMMER. 


D  2 


53 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 

The  morning  sun  is  roused  by  Thee, 
His  race  of  glory  to  pursue ; 
Thou  dost  man's  pilgrimage  renew, 
With  every  day's  variety. 


To  Thee,  O  God  !   my  song  ascends, 
Up  to  the  Spirit-land  aspires  ; 
And  with  the  music  and  the  lyres 
Of  angels  and  archangels  blends. 


Imposing  power — sublime  and  still ! 
Thou  mighty  stream  of  blessedness  ; 
Thou  all-subduing  soul  of  peace  ; 
Thou  hidden,  ever-active  Will ! 


54  SUNDAY    MORNING. 

Here  in  Thy  joyous  world  I  stand  : 
The  morning  breezes  gently  blow, 
The  flowers  look  up, — the  streamlets  flow, 
While  the  sun  lights  his  dazzling  brand  ; 


And  thro'  yon  arch'd  and  azure  height, 
As  a  proud  vessel  o'er  the  sea, 
Moves,  bridegroom-like,  rejoicingly, 
And  crowns  the  youthful  earth  with  light. 


Thou  wert  his  Maker — form'd  by  Thee, 
He  burst  upon  the  earth,  and  cast 
His  holy  brightness  o'er  the  waste 
Of  desolate  infinity. 


Even  like  a  spark  from  Thee  he  shone, 
The  gay  spring's  child,  the  summer's  nurse; 
Thy  regent  in  the  universe, 
With  royal  robes  of  glory  on. 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  55 

But  far  and  feeble  is  the  thought 
Which  flies  to  Thee,  O  God  !  from  him — 
His  brightest,  fiercest,  proudest  beam, 
When  Thou  art  present,  is  as  nought. 


Thou  art  the  ever-living  Sun, 
Who,  ere  a  planet  or  a  star 
Gilded  the  firmament  afar, 
Didst  in  Thy  glorious  courses  run. 


To  Thee  I  turn— to  Thee  alone 
I  look— great  Source  of  love  and  light, 
Who  art  th'  All- wise,  the  Infinite, 
Th'  Invisible,  the  awful — One ! 


Yes !  Thou  art  God  !  above,  beneath, 
Around,  within  us,  every  where ; 
And  all  enjoy  Thy  guardian  care  : 
The  realms  of  life — the  reign  of  death. 


56  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

Then  let  me  see  Thy  glorious  face, 
Till  I  shall  reach  my  place  of  rest ; 
Till  in  the  regions  of  the  blest 
I  revel  in  Thy  light,  Thy  praise. 


All  other  suns  shall  then  decay, 
Dimmed  in  Thy  all-pervading  sight ; 
All  other  glory,  other  light, 
Lost  in  the  dazzling  of  Thy  ray. 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

"  Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled,  but  confide 
"  In  me  as  ye  confide  in  God  ;  I  go 
"  A  mansion  for  my  followers  to  provide  ; 
"  My  Father's  heavenly  dwelling  is  supplied 
"  With  many  mansions  ; — I  had  told  ye  so, 


SUNDAY    EVENING.  .  57 

"  Were  there  not  room  ; — I  hasten  to  prepare 
"  Your  seats, — and  soon  will  come  again,  and  say, 
"  Be  welcome  : — where  your  Lord  inhabits,  there, 
"  There  should  his  followers  be ;  ye  know  the  way — 
"  lam  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life." — 'Twas  thus 
The  Saviour  spoke — and  in  that  blessed  road, 
What  flow'rets  grow,  what  sun-beams  shine  on  us, 
All  glowing  with  the  brightness  of  our  God. 
Heaven  seems  to  open  round,  the  earth  is  still, 
As  if  to  sanctify  us  for  the  skies  ; 
All  tending  to  the  realms  where  blessing  lies, 
And  joy  and  gladness,  up  the  eternal  hill. 
As  the  heavenrguided  prophet,  when  his  eyes 
Stretch 'd  wearied  o'er  the  peaceful  promised  land, 
Even  as  he  stood  on  Canaan's  shores,  we  stand. 

O  night !  how  beautiful  thy  golden  dress, 
On  which  so  many  stars  like  gems  are  strew'd ; 
So  mild  and  modest  in  thy  loveliness, 
So  bright,  so  glorious  in  thy  solitude. 
The  soul  soars  upwards  on  its  holy  wings, 
Thro'  thy  vast  ocean-paths  of  light  sublime, 
Visits  a  thousand  yet  unravelled  things  ; 
And,  if  its  memories  look  to  earthly  time 
d  5 


58  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

And  early  interests,  'tis  as  in  a  dream — 

For  earth  and  earthly  things  but  shadows  seem ; 

While  heaven  is  substance,  and  eternity. 

This  is  Thy  temple,  Lord !  'tis  worthy  Thee, 

And  in  it  thou  hast  many  a  lamp  suspended, 

That  dazzles  not,  but  lights  resplendently ; 

And  there  Thy  Court  is — there  Thy  court,  attended 

By  myriad,  myriad  messengers — the  song 

Of  countless  and  melodious  harps  is  heard, 

Sweeter  than  rill,  or  stream,  or  vernal  bird, 

The  dark  and  melancholy  woods  among. 

And  golden  worlds  in  that  wide  temple  glow, 

And  roll  in  brightness,  in  their  orbits  vast ; 

And  there  the  future  mingles  with  the  past, 

An  unbeginning,  an  unending  now. 

Death !  they  may  call  thee  what  they  will,  but  thou 
Art  lovely  in  my  eyes — thy  thoughts  to  me 
No  terror  bring  ;  but  silence  and  repose, 
And  pleasing  dreams,  and  soft  serenity. 
Thou  wear'st  a  wreath  where  many  a  wild  flower 

blows ; 
And  breezes  of  the  south  play  round  thy  throne ; 
And  thou  art  visited  by  the  calm  bright  moon ; 


SUNDAY    EVENING.  59 

And  the  gay  spring  her  emerald  mantle  throws 
Over  thy  bosom  ;  every  year  renews 
Thy  grassy  turf,  while  man  beneath  it  sleeps  ; 
Evening  still  bathes  it  with  its  gentle  dews, 
Which  every  morn  day's  glorious  monarch  sweeps 
With  his  gay  smile  away : — and  so  we  lie, 
Gathered  in  the  storehouse  of  mortality. 
That  storehouse  overflows  with  heavenly  seed ; 
And,  planted  by  th'  Eternal  Husbandman, 
Watered  and  watched,  it  shall  hereafter  breed 
A  progeny  of  strength,  no  numbers  can 
Or  reach  or  reckon.     It  shall  people  heaven  ; 
Fill  up  the  thrones  of  angels : — it  shall  found 
A  kingdom,  knowing  nor  decay  nor  bound, 
Built  on  the  base  by  Gospel  promise  given. 


60 


MONDAY    MORNING. 

O  sweet  it  is  to  know,  to  feel, 

In  all  our  gloom,  our  wanderings  here — 

No  night  of  sorrow  can  conceal 

Man  from  Thy  notice,  from  Thy  care. 


When  disciplined  by  long  distress, 
And  led  thro'  paths  of  fear  and  woe ; 
Say,  dost  thou  love  Thy  children  less  '? 
No,  ever  gracious  Father !  No. 


No  distance  can  outreach  Thy  eye, 
No  night  obscure  Thy  endless  day : 
Be  this  my  comfort  when  I  sigh, 
Be  this  my  safeguard  when  I  stray. 


MONDAY    MORNING.  61 


Unseen,  yet  every  where  Thou  art, 
Felt  every  where,  yet  all  unknown  : 
In  the  frail  temple  of  my  heart, 
As  on  Thine  everlasting  throne. 


"Where'er  I  turn,  where'er  I  go, 
Spirit  sublime  !  Thy  light,  Thy  love, 
Are  there  :  in  ocean  caves  below, 
On  yonder  farthest  orb  above. 


Thy  presence  in  the  shade  is  seen, 
As  in  the  sunshine  ;  in  a  worm, 
As  in  a  world ;  in  eve  serene, 
As  in  the  thunder  of  the  storm. 


Weak  are  our  thoughts :  our  sight  is  dim, 
Or  our  uncurtained  eye  might  see 
A  sweeter,  purer,  holier  beam 
In  sorrow,  than  in  revelry. 


62  MONDAY    MORNING. 

The  fairest  flow'rets  of  the  mead, 
The  sparkling  gem,  the  insect  gay, 
From  the  dark  womb  of  earth  proceed, 
And  borrow  from  the  dust  their  ray. 


The  glow-worm  sparkling  thro'  the  night, 
The  star  that  twinkles  in  the  sky  ; 
Take  from  surrounding  gloom  their  light, 
Their  splendour  from  obscurity. 


And  not  the  vilest,  not  the  worst, 
His  discipline  of  mercy  proves : 
His  chastening  hand  descends  the  first 
On  those  who  love  Him — those  He  loves. 


Pride,  power,  would  seem  to  pass  their  hours 

Basking  in  an  unclouded  day ; 

On  them  the  dew  of  comfort  showers, 

And  crowned  with  flowery  wreaths  are  they ! 


MONDAY    MORNING.  63 

'Tis  false,  'tis  vain  !  those  dews  are  cold — 
They  fall — but  they  refresh  not  them  ; 
And  those  fair-seeming  flow'rets  hold 
A  canker  in  their  budding  stem. 


In  His  just  scales,  the  meanest  thing 
That  bears  the  name  of  man — when  weigh'd, 
Is  dear  as  is  the  proudest  king 
In  all  his  glittering  robes  array'd. 


The  wretch  who  in  the  common  street 

The  victim  of  oppression  falls, 

Is  noble  as  the  titled  great 

Who  dies  in  luxury's  painted  halls. 


Men  are  deceived  by  idle  names — 
'Tis  easier  to  be  rich  than  wise ; 
And  wisdom  less  distinctions  claims 
Than  fortune's  idle  vanities. 


64  MONDAY    EVENING. 

But  God  the  naked  soul  surveys — 
Its  dress  deserves  not  his  regard  : 
Tis  worth  alone  obtains  His  praise, 
And  holiness  His  bright  reward. 


MONDAY    EVENING. 

The  evening  twilight  gently  dies  ; 
The  air  is  cool ;  the  silent  night 
Serenely  rules  ;  the  curtain'd  skies 
To  contemplation's  shrine  invite  ; 
The  labours  of  the  day  are  done  : 
That  man  how  exquisitely  blest, 
Who,  with  the  calm  declining  sun, 
Is  shrouded  in  untroubled  rest. 

Thrice  blest,  who  steals  'neath  twilight's  smile, 
Tranquil  as  yon  fair  arch  above, 
To  sleep,  securely  sleep  awhile, 
In  the  kind  arms  of  heavenly  love  : 


MONDAY    EVENING.  65 

With  no  reproaching  voice  within, 
No  dreams  of  terror  frowning  wild  ; 
As  evening's  earliest  dew  serene, 
As  evening's  latest  sun-beam  mild. 

But  who  his  wretched  lot  can  paint, 
Who  by  a  will  of  evil  led 
Thro'  darksome  labyrinths,  weary,  faint, 
With  clouds  and  tempests  over-head, 
Wanders,  a  lost,  a  wretched  one- 
He  whom  dread  errors  circle  round, 
Yet  stands  unsheltered  and  alone 
In  folly's  heaviest  fetters  bound  ! 

His  life  is  like  the  thunder-cloud 
That  rolls  along  the  welkin  dark  ; 
Its  voice  of  threat'ning  dreadful,  loud, 
And  fiery  flames  its  presence  mark  : 
Its  gloomy  path  is  joyless,  cold, 
Destruction  tracks  its  wild  career — 
And  men  its  frowning  form  behold 
In  wild  alarm,  or  speechless  fear. 


Ob  MONDAY    EVENING. 

His  footsteps  track  a  dreary  waste, 
A  cheerless  wilderness  of  gloom — 
A  sandy  desert  is  the  past, 
A  starless  blank  the  time  to  come. 
For  him  the  earth  in  mists  is  clad, 
From  heaven  no  dews  of  comfort  fall  ; 
Joy  wears  her  funeral  garments  sad, 
And  sorrow  dregs  her  cup  with  gall. 

Alas  !  the  brightest  and  the  best 
Of  earthly  pleasures  soon  decay  ; 
The  sweetest  and  the  loveliest 
Glide,  like  a  falling  star,  away. 
Yes  !  even  like  nature's  fairest  birth, 
The  flow'rets  blushing  thro'  the  dew, 
The  rude  wind  sweeps  them  from  the  earth- 
But  not  like  flowers,  to  smile  anew. 


Even  like  the  fell'd,  the  falling  tree, 
That,  east  or  west,  in  ruin  lies — 
Crush'd  by  the  stroke  of  destiny, 
Man,  with  the  dull  dust  blended,  dies. 


TUESDAY    MORNING.  67 


But  he  shall  from  that  bed  arise, 
Renew'd  by  heaven's  eternal  spring ; 
And  in  the  garden  of  the  skies 
Bloom  in  eternal  blossoming. 


TUESDAY    MORNING. 

How  wisely  is  the  stream  of  life  controll'd 
In  its  mild  courses-exhausted,  and  renew'd : 
When  toiling  day  its  hurried  tide  has  roll'd, 
Comes  night's  sweet  season ; — a  vicissitude 
Of  labour  and  of  rest ; — the  day -rays  shine 
Upon  the  mountains, — and  I  live  again : 
Yet  blest  it  is,  our  spirits  to  resign 
To  th'  calm  influence  of  sleep's  gentle  reign. 
Land  of  pure  freedom — kingdom  of  repose ! 
I  lay  and  slept — the  day  had  hidden  his  beam, 
And  my  tired  spirit  at  the  evening's  close 
Slumber'd  with   the   sun,  —  while   many  a    lovely 
dream 


68  TUESDAY    MORNING. 

Play'd  with  my  wandering  intellect,  and  spread 

Its  soften'd  colouring  round  me, — and  I  breath 'd 

In  new  existence,  by  bright  fancy  led 

To  realms,  in  which  eternal  garlands  wreath 'd 

The  enfranchised  spirit.     What  a  blessedness, 

Tho'  for  a  moment  only,  to  take  wing 

To  the  fair  regions  of  eternal  peace, 

The  paradise  of  everlasting  spring, 

Whose  life-source  is  immortal !    E'en  this  world 

Were  a  most  privileged,  most  bright  abode, 

If  hence— imagination's  wings  unfurl'd 

Could  sometimes  waft  th'  aspiring  spirit  to  God. 

Man's  hopes  and  fears  may  seem  confined,  to  him 

Whose  vision  stretches  not  o'er  mortal  things  : 

But  the  most  distant  star's  invisible  beam, 

Or  comet  in  his  farthest  journeyings, 

Or  all  th'  extent  which  philosophic  ken 

Has  given  to  infinite  space — th'  elastic  soul 

Springs  over  :  these,  and  more  than  these,  in  vain 

Her  free  and  untired  wanderings  would  control. 

At  will,  she  travels  on  from  sun  to  sun  ; 

System  to  system — peoples  as  she  flies 


TUESDAY    MORNING.  69 

Unnumbered  stars — an  all-creating  one  ! 

Dives  into  nature's  deepest  mysteries ; 

Unlocks  the  gates  of  death,  and  holds  communion 

With  the  spirits  of  the  tomb ; — and  yet  this  spark, 

So  bright  and  beautiful,  is  held  in  union 

With  a  mortal  clod, — unintellectual,  dark, 

And  seems  to  perish.     It  can  perish  never. 

Born  of  the  heavens,  again  to  heaven  it  speeds 

To  dwell  in  its  own  home — to  shine  for  ever, 

Divested  of  its  dark  and  mortal  weeds. 

Great  Being !  who  hast  placed  Thy  pilgrim  here, 

In  the  dull  twilight  of  this  shadow-land, 

O  lead  me  to  that  brighter,  better  sphere, 

'Neath  the  mild  influence  of  Thy  guiding  hand. 

Let  me  enjoy  Thy  gifts,  Thy  gifts  improve, 

Revel  in  Thy  sunshine  here,  and  pluck  the  flowers 

Strewed  on  my  path  by  Thy  benignant  love  ; 

Inhale  the  freshness  of  the  morning  hours, 

The  fragrance  of  the  evening  breeze  ;  and  see 

In  all  things  Thy  directing  spirit,  Lord  ! 

Thou,  in  all  nature  visible — all  in  Thee  : 

And  hear  Thy  voice,  Thy  all-impressive  word, 


70  TUESDAY    EVENING. 

In  every  sound  of  air,  or  earth,  or  sea  ; 

For  all — O  God  !  are  pregnant  with  Thy  praise- 

And  I  thus  join  the  general  harmony, 

And  my  low  song  of  grateful  worship  raise. 


TUESDAY    EVENING. 

To  Thee,  my  God  !  to  Thee  I  bring 
The  evening's  grateful  offering ; 
From  Thee,  the  source  of  joy  above, 
Flow  everlasting  streams  of  love  ; 
And  all  the  rays  of  light  that  shine, 
And  bless  creation,  Lord  !  are  Thine. 

From  the  green  valley  glad  and  gay, 
Among  whose  flowers  the  zephyrs  play, 
Up  to  the  azure  hill,  whose  height 
And  distance  bound  the  far-stretch'd  sight, 
Rearing  its  proud  head  silently ; 
All,  all  is  eloquent  with  Thee. 


TUESDAY    EVENING.  71 


And  from  the  little  worm,  whose  light 
Shines  palely  thro'  the  shades  of  night, 
Up  to  the  sparkling  stars  that  run 
Their  evening  rounds— or  glorious  sun, 
Rolling  his  car  to  twilight's  rest — 
All,  all  in  Thee  is  bright  and  blest. 


The  morn,  when  stepping  down  the  hills- 
The  noon,  which  all  creation  fills 
With  glory — evening's  placid  fall — 
The  twilight — and  the  raven  pall 
Of  midnight — all  alike  proclaim 
Thy  great,  Thine  all-impressive  Name. 


When  in  the  darkness  deep  and  dull 

The  shining  stars  look  beautiful ; 

When  the  blue  heavens  that  we  behold, 

Are  sprinkled  o'er  with  living  gold, 

And  the  calm  breeze  speaks  whisperingly — 

We  hold  communion,  God!  with  Thee. 


72  TUESDAY    EVENING. 

A  thousand  suns  around  us  rise, 

As  bright  as  lamps  of  paradise  ; 

While  countless  stars,  commingling,  play 

In  yonder  devious  milky  way ; 

And  the  tall  hills,  and  valleys  deep, 

Are  wrapt  in  calm  and  solemn  sleep. 


And  softly  sink  night's  shades  again 
Upon  the  shifting  tents  of  men  ; 
And  welcome  is  the  evening  hour, 
And  sweet  the  midnight's  magic  power, 
Which  thro'  the  silence  of  the  air 
Visits  the  heart,  and  triumphs  there. 


Tis  still !  and  darkness'  mild  control 
Revives,  renews,  the  wearied  soul — 
Its  mild,  benignant  influence, 
Strengthens  again  th'  exhausted  sense  ; 
And  when  the  morning  twilight  breaks, 
A  re-created  man  awakes. 


TUESDAY    EVENING.  73 

On  the  green  branch  the  slumbering  bird 
Broods  calmly — in  the  woods  is  heard 
Nor  voice,  nor  echo — silent  all, 
Except  the  untired  waterfall, 
That  seems  to  glide  more  sweetly  on, 
Because  its  song  is  heard  alone. 


But  over  all, — above,  below, 

We  see  Thee— ever  present  Thou ! 

In  every  wandering  rill  that  flows, 

In  every  gentle  breeze  that  blows ; 

In  every  rising,  setting  sun, 

We  trace  Thee — own  Thee — holy  One ! 


Yes  !  in  the  mid-day's  fervid  beams, 
And  in  the  midnight's  shadowy  dreams, 
In  action  and  repose,  we  see, 
We  recognise,  and  worship  Thee ; 
To  Thee  our  worthiest  soHgs  would  give, 
And  in  Thee  die,  and  to  Thee  live. 
e 


74 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 


Father  !  at  whose  awakening  nod 
The  early  day-break  gilds  the  hills  ; 
Tis  Thy  almighty  mandate,  God  ! 
Which  mountain,  valley,  sea,  and  sod, 
With  light  and  joy  and  glory  fills. 

To  Thee  my  spirit  fain  would  soar, 
To  Thee  my  trusting  eye  would  look, 
In  holiest  confidence  adore, 
And  read  with  sweetest  pleasure  o'er 
Nature's  impressive,  varied  book. 

Tis  Thy  benignant  hand,  that  sheds 
Its  light,  its  wisdom  thro'  our  breast ; 
And,  like  a  gentle  shepherd,  leads 
Thy  wandering  flocks  thro'  fruitful  meads, 
To  the  calm  fold  of  peace  and  rest. 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING.  75 

The  peace  which  earth  hath  never  given, 
The  pure,  self-sacrificing  love, 
The  joy  which  flows  alone  from  heaven, 
The  silent  bliss,  like  summer's  even, 
The  hope,  which  has  its  shrine  above  : 

All  these,  and  more  than  these,  are  Thine ! 
The  truth,  which  has  its  source  in  Thee, 
Who  art  all  truth !  the  strength  divine 
Of  virtue,  and  the  golden  mine 
Of  dignified  humanity. 

These  are  Thy  gifts ;  and  these  shall  be 
My  pure,  habitual  offering : 
Accept,  great  God  of  purity ! 
Accept,  forgive  benignantly, 
The  imperfect  tribute  that  I  bring. 

Lord  !  when  I  seek  Thy  face,  I  feel 
I  am  but  dust — the  sprinkled  dew 
Of  morning : — but  the  towering  will 
That  soars  to  heaven,  is  heavenly  still — 
And  man,  tho'  clay,  is  spirit  too. 
e  2 


76  WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

Yes  !  I  can  feel  that,  tho'  a  clod 
Of  the  dark  vale,  there  is  a  sense 
Of  better  things — the  fit  abode 
Of  something  tending  up  to  God — 
A  germ  of  pure  intelligence. 

I  know  not  how  th'  Eternal  hand 

Has  moulded  man — but  this  I  know/ 

That  while  'midst  earth's  strange  scenes  I  stand, 

Bright  visions  of  a  better  land 

Go  with  me  still,  where'er  I  go. 

And  surely  dreams  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
Friendly  to  hope  and  joy  and  worth, 
Are  not  the  phantoms  of  deceit, 
Delusions  sent  to  blind,  to  cheat 
The  weary  wandering  sons  of  earth. 

No  !  no  such  dazzling  errors  these, 
As  when,  in  Zara's  deserts  vast, 
The  exhausted,  panting  traveller  sees 
Bright  lakes,  that  mock  his  miseries, 
And  prove  but  burning  sands  at  last. 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING.  77 

If  in  the  breast  of  man  there  be 

(And  sure  as  he  exists  there  is) 

The  seed  of  immortality, 

Who  bids  it  grow  there?   Who,  but  He 

Who  destined  him  to  endless  bliss  f 

My  God  !    we  are  Thy  offspring-^time 
Is  but  our  infancy — the  earth 
Our  cradle — but  our  homes  a  clime 
Eternal,  sorrowless,  sublime — 
Heaven  is  the  country  of  our  birth  ! 


WEDNESDAY   EVENING. 

The  day  is  past, — night's  gentle  power  renews 
Its  holy  influence  o'er  created  things  ; 
The  earth  is  bathed  in  evening's  gentle  dews, 
And  over  man  sleep  waves  its  plumy  wings. 
So  rolls  life's  day  of  brightness — and  its  eve 
Comes  softly  stealing,  when  the  pilgrim  tires  ; 


78  WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 

We  rest  upon  earth's  silent  lap,  and  leave 

Its  busy  cares,  to  sleep  where  slept  our  sires. 

Lo  !  that  sweet  infant  on  its  mother's  breast, 

The  proud  world  smiles  around  him,  glad  and  gay ; 

But  soon  that  bosom  will  be  sooth 'd  to  rest — 

And  death  shall  sweep  that  laughing  child  away. 

No  place  is  crowded  like  the  peopled  tomb ; 

Death  from  his  victories  reposes  never ; 

Each  moment 's  pregnant  with  some  mortal's  doom, 

And  hearts  are  breaking — myriads  mourning  ever. 

Thou  God  of  life  !  thou  Arbiter  of  death  ! 
Thou  wipest  the  death-sweat  from  the  cold  pale  brow, 
Thou  listenest  to  the  last  departing  breath, 
And  linkest  our  hereafter  to  our  now. 
O  let  that  ?iow  roll  tranquilly  along, 
Gilded  by  that  hereafter — Spirit  of  love  ! 
Let  Thy  kind  angels  round  my  footsteps  throng, 
And  point  my  hopes,  my  thoughts,  my  prayers  above: 
And  in  the  bed  of  sickness — or  the  tomb 
Of  desolation,  where  my  ashes  rest — 
There  may  these  holy  visitations  come, 
Ministering  spirits  from  their  regions  blest. 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING  79 

And  while  I  linger  in  this  forest  dark 

Of  mortal  life,  let  my  aspiring  eye 

Catch  from  the  heavenly  world  one  smiling  spark. 

To  light  my  onward  pilgrimage  on  high. 

Dull  is  the  lightning  to  the  meanest  beam, 
Which  even  from  heaven's  extremest  bound  is  driven  ; 
The  sun  is  darkness,  to  one  ray  from  Him 
Who  kindled  all  the  fires  of  earth  and  heaven. 
All-kind,  all-holy  Father !  Thou,  whose  grace 
Illumined  every  star  that's  hung  in  air  ; 
Guardian  of  nature !  Thou,  whose  glorious  face 
Is  shadowed  forth  in  all  that's  bright  or  fair. 
There  are  ten  thousand  blessed  spirits,  that  roam 
O'er  this  dark  world — and  voices  numberless — 
We  hear  them,  but  we  know  not  whence  they  come : 
Ten  thousand  golden  harps  are  strung^and  bless 
With  their  soft  music  the  delighted  ear — 
It  is  from  heaven,  and  heavenly  is  its  tone — 
"  Holy ! "  they  cry — those  choirs  of  angels  hear! 
"  Thrice  holy  One ! "  they  sing, "  Thrice  holy  One! " 


80 


THURSDAY    MORNING. 

Come  forth  in  thy  purple  robes  again. 

Thou  brightest  star  of  heaven ! 
Another  day  the  Guardian  of  men 

Has  to  His  children  given. 
Receive  the  gift  with  gratitude  ; 

My  soul !  to  thy  Maker  ascend, 
And  bear  thy  songs  to  the  Source  of  good, 

To  thy  Father  and  thy  Friend. 

Bring  Him  thy  morning  tribute  meet, 

Devotion's  offering ; 
How  privileged  to  hold  communion  sweet 

With  thine  and  creation's  King ! 
I  look  around, — a  thousand  things 

Enjoy  the  sunny  beam  : 
And  Nature  her  million  voices  brings 

To  form  an  anthem  to  Him. 


THURSDAY    MORNING.  8l 

O  join  the  songs  of  the  air,  the  grove, 

And  the  chorus  of  the  sea ; 
For,  hark  !  the  spirits  of  light  above 

Re-echo  the  harmony. 
And  see  !  ten  thousand  angels  smile 

Thro'  the  firmament's  golden  doors  ; 
And  from  silver  clouds,  heaven's  hand  the  while 

Scatters  our  path  with  flowers. 

The  senses  indeed  must  be  dark  and  dull, 

That  in  nature  no  charms  can  see ; 
For  beauty's  self  is  more  beautiful 

To  the  eye  of  piety. 
And  deaf  indeed  is  the  clay-cold  ear, 

That  no  sounds  of  music  greet ; 
Tho'  nought  as  the  music  of  praise  and  prayer 

Is  half  so  exquisite. 

And  why  should  man  a  distant  bliss 

So  eagerly,  fondly  chase, 
While  the  holy  joys  of  a  world  like  this 

Invite  his  present  embrace  ? 

£  5 


82  THURSDAY    MORNING. 

Are  the  unknown  beings  of  yonder  zone 

More  privileged  than  we  ? 
Does  a  shorter  year,  or  a  brighter  sun 

Imply  felicity  ? 

They  may  wander  perchance  in  groves  of  palm, 

And  dwell  in  palaces  bright ; 
They  may  breathe  an  air  as  sweet  as  balm, 

And  be  clad  in  robes  of  light : 
Yet  there,  as  here,  the  fatal  grave 

Will  o'er  their  possessions  close  ; 
And  the  more  they  enjoy,  the  more  they  have, 

The  more  they  are  destined  to  lose. 

O  let  our  portion  content  us  then, 

The  portion  which  God  has  given  ; 
For  man  is  the  fair  earth's  denizen, 

And  the  heritor  of  heaven. 
Above  him  are  gorgeous,  golden  clouds, 

That  roll  in  glory  afar  ; 
And  the  night,  which  its  bosom  in  darkness  shrouds, 

Is  sprinkled  with  many  a  star. 


THURSDAY    EVENING.  83 

And  brighter  and  fairer  than  star  or  sun 

Is  the  light  that  beams  from  on  high, 
A  light  which  conducts  its  pilgrims  on 

To  the  shrine  of  eternal  joy : 
And  thither  our  towering  thoughts  shall  soar, 

And  there  the  tired  spirit  shall  rest ; 
While  hope  bursts  open  the  heavenly  door 

Of  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 


THURSDAY    EVENING. 

Calm  is  the  eve,  and  nature's  wasting  strength 
Is,  by  the  gentle  influence  of  repose, 
Repaired,  rekindled ; — with  the  morning's  dawn, 
As  if  new-born,  the  world  awakes ;  and  throws 
The  wearying  burden  of  existence  down, 
When  night  invites  to  rest. 

And  such  new  birth 
In  soul  and  spirit  well  beseemeth  man  : 
His  grosser  part  decays  and  dies  away  ; 
Then  let  him  fan  that  bright,  immortal  spark. 


84 


THURSDAY    EVENING. 


Glimmering  in  the  recesses  of  his  heart. 

That  lights  up  virtue's  flame,  and  wisdom's  torch, 

(The  torch  of  heavenly  wisdom)  ;  that  pure  star, 

Which  shines  as  sweetly  as  Aldebaran 

Thro'  the  dark  grating  of  a  prison-house : 

Guided  by  this,  man  shall  be  free  indeed 

In  the  transcendent  glorious  liberty 

Which  our  Deliverer  wrought  and  perfected. 

He  who  is  born  of  the  corporeal  sense, 
Is  but  a  heavy  useless  mass  obscure, 
Till  lighted  by  the  Spirit,  that  gives  life 
And  beauty  and  perfection.     Then  indeed 
A  glorious  birth  succeeds — the  power  of  death 
Is  broken,  and  the  enfranchised  prisoner  walks 
In  the  expanse  of  heaven  and  blessedness  : 
So  privileged  is  regenerated  man  ! 
His  influence  is  as  gentle  and  as  sweet 
As  that  of  evening's  breath,  which  silently 
Steals  over  nature — musical  its  voice, 
Unseen  its  workings, — but  upon  its  wings 
Sit  cheerfulness  and  health.    The  pilgrim  feels 
Its  fresh  and  honest  greeting,  and  moves  on, 


THURSDAY    EVENING.  85 

Cheered  and  supported.     He  has  raised  a  pile 
To  wisdom,  and  there  worships,  and  there  keeps 
Habitual  court,  and  every  morn  and  night 
Lights  up  pure  incense  at  the  holy  shrine, 
And  takes  another  step  towards  heaven  and  God. 
O  Thou  !  whose  light-encircled  throne  is  built 
Upon  eternity — listen  !  May  his  lot 
Be  Thy  now-worshipping  servant's  ;  let  my  path 
Thus  lead  me  to  Thy  presence.     Even  here 
I  see  Thy  glory  beaming  thence — I  hear, 
Amidst  the  harmony  of  a  thousand  stars, 
Some  angel-voice  inviting ; — and  I  feel 
As  if  the  garlands  of  celestial  growth 
Had  touch' d  my  forehead.    O  transporting  dreams ! 
Beautiful  visions  of  that  land  of  joy, 
Unveil' d  by  God,  and  clad  in  starry  light ! 
O  privileged  moment !  when  the  gates  of  heaven 
Glitter  resplendently  upon  my  view. 
In  that  soft  light  so  sweetly  shining  now, 
Amidst  those  visions  thro'  the  shades  of  time, , 
Beneath  those  stars  which  so  serenely  smile — 
My  heart  shall  be  devoted  all  to  Thee. 


86 


FRIDAY    MORNING. 

TO  THE  INCOMPREHENSIBLE  GOD. 

(From  the  Spanish  of  Melendez.) 

First,  Mightiest  Deity !  Eternal  Mind  ! 

Revealed — but  hidden  One  ! 

Thou  in  a  veil  of  fadeless  glory  shrin'd, 

Yet  to  all  seen  and  known ! 

Holy  Jehovah  !  whose  immortal  essence 

I  weigh  not, — but  confess — 

And  feel  Thy  influence,  Thy  celestial  presence, 

In  all  my  happiness. 

All  lives,  all  breathes,  all  vegetates  in  Thee ; 

Thy  power  all  being  gives  ; 

The  bird  upsoars,  the  fish  divides  the  sea — 

Man  understands,  and  lives. 

The  farther  my  inquiring  thoughts  advance, 

The  farther  Thou  dost  fly— 

And  nought  I  see,  but  my  own  ignorance 

And  Thy  immensity. 


FRIDAY    MORNING.  87 

Thee,  whom  the  heaven  of  heavens  cannot  contain, 

How  should  those  thoughts  embrace  ? 

My  feeble  reason  strives  and  soars  in  vain 

Thy  cloud-wrapt  path  to  trace. 

That  reason  in  the  infinite  recess 

Of  dazzling  light  is  drown'd, 

And,  blinded  in  its  night  of  nothingness, 

Bows,  humbled  to  the  ground. 

For  if  to  man  to  know  Thee  it  were  given, 

He  would  be  like  to  Thee  ; 

Would  wrest  Thy  sceptre,  and  usurp  in  heaven 

Thy  throne  of  majesty. 

But  Thou  art  far  beyond  my  knowledge,  Lord ! 

Filling  all  space — all  time. 

The  first — the  last — ungoverned  and  adored, 

Thou  mak'st  Thy  path  sublime — 

Thou  givest  motion  to  the  heavens — Thy  hand 

Poureth  out  the  deep,  proud  sea : 

And  the  adamantine  pillars  of  the  land 

Are  reared  and  propped  by  Thee. 

Thy  way  is  in  th'  empyreum — and  Thy  feet 

Tread  the  eternal  hills ; 


88  FRIDAY    MORNING. 

Yet  Thy  eye  visits  death's  profoundest  pit, 

And  night  with  brightness  fills  ; 

And  from  that  car  of  light  where  Thou  dost  ride, 

Thy  eye,  serene  and  holy, 

Mourneth  o'er  man's  intolerable  pride, 

And  laugheth  at  his  folly. 

But  Thou  art  vaster  than  the  unbounded  sky, 

And  the  unfathomed  ocean  ; 

Thou  art — and  wast  before  eternity — 

Before  or  rest  or  motion. 

How  shall  I  praise  Thee  ? — seraphs,  when  they  bring 

The  homage  of  their  lyre, 

Veil  their  bright  face  beneath  their  flaming  wing, 

And  tremble  and  retire. 

Eternal  Majesty — immense  abyss — 

Light  and  Infinity ! 

Canst  Thou  unveil  Thee  to  a  worm  like  this  ? 

No  !    'Tis  all  dark  to  me. 

Who  art  Thou  ?  Where !  O  condescend  to  speak, 

And  let  Thy  servant  hear  : — 

Lend  me  Thy  wings— and  I  my  God  will  seek 

Thro'  every  rolling  sphere. 


FRIDAY    MORNING.  89 

I'll  ask  the  rapid  wind,  I'll  ask  the  storm, 

I'll  ask  Orion  bright — 

1  Say,  hast  thou  seen  His  venerable  form, 

The  shadow  of  His  light  \ ' 

I'll  meet  the  comet  in  his  fiery  way, 

Stay  Sirius  on  his  road — 

I'll  stop  the  hurrying  night,  the  hastening  day, 

To  tell  me — where  is  God. 

I'll  ask forgive  my  daring,  gracious  One  ! 

And  lead  the  wanderer  home. 

0  may  I  catch  one  light-beam  from  Thy  throne, 
Thro'  ages  yet  to  come  ! 

For  how  should  earthly  dust  presume  to  rise 
So  daringly,  so  high  ? 
And  how  should  dim  and  dying  mortal  eyes 
Bear  splendours  of  the  sky  ? 

1  cannot  bear  them  ; — but  I  feel,  and  know, 
That  Thou  art  every  where  ; 

And  worms  and  worlds — the  lofty  and  the  low, 
All,  all  Thy  power  declare; 

All,  all  Thy  love  proclaim — Thy  power,  and  love, 
Obvious  to  every  sense ; 


90  FRIDAY    MORNING. 

And  heard  in  all,  around,  beneath,  above, 

In  varied  eloquence. 

I  see  Thee  in  the  flower — I  feel  Thee  still 

In  every  breath  of  air, 

I  hear  Thee  in  the  music  of  the  rill : 

God  !  Thou  art  every  where. 

This  is  enough  all  sadness  to  control, 

All  doubts  and  fears  to  chase  ; 

And  to  shed  over  my  enraptured  soul 

The  rivers  of  Thy  grace. 

To  contemplate — enjoy — admire — adore — 

And  send  sweet  thoughts  tow'rds  heaven , 

What  can  an  earthly  spirit  ask  for  more  1 

What  more  to  man  be  given ! 

Lost  in  Thy  works, — yet  full  of  humble  trust, 

I  close  the  worthless  lay  ; 

Bow  down  my  reverent  forehead  in  the  dust, 

And  in  meek  silence  pray. 


91 


FRIDAY    EVENING. 


Hour  after  hour  steals  rapidly  away, 

Bearing  past  pleasures  on  its  airy  wings, 

Even  like  the  sunny  clouds,  which  evening's  ray 

Gilds  with  ten  thousand  bright  and  beauteous  things. 

Where  are  the  million  million  actors  now 

That  once  this  busy  scene  of  being  trod  ? 

All  garnered  underneath  the  grassy  sod, 

Sleeping  yon  heaps  of  turf,  or  stone,  below ! 

Tis  fleeting  all, — all  false  :— *■ in  the  stormy  sea 
Of  life,  Religion  is  the  only  rock  ; 
A  thousand  ages  roll  on  hurriedly, 
It  stands  unshaken  by  the  billow's  shock : 
It  stands  unshaken.     Mountains  tottering  fall, 
Hills  bow, — and  forests,  cities,  shrines  decay: 
There's  no  security,  no  staff,  nor  stay — 
Time's  mighty  curtain  must  envelop  all. 


92  FRIDAY    EVENING. 

But  thou,  heaven's  daughter,  hast  in  heaven  thy  throne, 
Thy  chariot  moves  with  the  unclouded  sun  : 
Thy  light,  thy  strength,  immortal  and  alone, 
Roll  in  their  full  career  of  glory  on. 
What  tho'  the  door  of  evening's  twilight  close  ? 
What,  tho'  the  voice  of  death  may  call  aloud  ? 
In  the  darkest  night  a  star  of  Eden  glows— 
A  beam  of  heavenly  hape  illumes  the  shroud. 

Fulfil  thy  journey,  pilgrim  !  all  may  fade, 
Fail,  perish  round  thee — death  shall  dim  thy  eye, 
Shall  freeze  thy  beating  heart — and  thou  shalt  lie 
A  silent  slumberer  in  the  realms  of  shade ; 
Yet  faint  not, — fear  not !  let  thy  nobler  sense 
Look  upward — it  shall  see  delightful  gleams 
Smiling  from  heaven — catch  pure  intelligence 
From  realms  of  truth — and  from  the  idle  dreams 
Of  earth  escaping,  build  a  holy  fane 
To  those  high  principles,  unshaken,  real, 
Which,  towering  'bove  these  passing  scenes  ideal, 
Triumph  o'er  the  flitting  clouds  of  time  and  pain. 

Ours  is  a  faith,  nurtured  and  nourished 
In  the  inmost  heart — but  not  imprisoned  there — 


FRIDAY    EVENING.  93 

With  holy  thoughts  and  aspirations  fed, 

The  object  of  its  worship  always  near : 

That  object — the  all-present  Spirit  of  God — 

A  spirit  more  diffused  than  is  the  light, 

(For  it  no  twilight  knows,  nor  clouds,  nor  night) 

Beaming  thro'  all — yet  fixing  its  abode 

In  the  recesses  of  the  pious  breast. 

Ye  soft  and  beautiful  dreams  !  whose  origin 

Is,  when  life's  day  is  purest,  holiest, 

Ere  tinged  by  suffering,  or  stained  by  sin ; 

Growing  with  our  growth,  and  strengthening  with 

our  strength, 
And  glowing  in  our  full  maturity, 
Till,  mingled  with  our  being,  they  shall  be 
The  link  that  binds  us  to  our  heaven  at  length. 

This  world  has  nought  to  soothe  or  satisfy 
The  spirit,  save  the  lustre  it  receives 
(Like  sun-beams  glimmering  thro'  the  dewy  eaves) 
From  the  bright  influence  of  eternity.* 

*  The  concluding  passage  of  this  Hymn  will,  I  trust, 
recall  to  the  recollection  of  the  reader  one  of  the  sublimest 
passages  of  modern  English  prose. 


94 


SATURDAY    MORNING. 

The  sand  of  another  week  has  run, 
All  but  its  last  and  closing  day  ; 
And  its  few  remnant  moments  soon 
The  common  ruin  will  sweep  away. 
Time  hurries,  as  the  sparkling  ray 
That  dances  on  the  fleeting  stream. 
Is  life  a  dream ! — Ah !  if  a  dream, 
A  dream  of  sad  reality. 
Whether  we  trace  the  days  gone  by, 
Or  to  the  cheating  future  look — 
'Tis  all  a  dark  and  gloomy  book, 
Which  vice  and  folly,  stubborn  will, 
And  silent  blanks,  and  sorrow,  fill.3 
And  so  we  are  driven — driven  ever, 
Down  time's  impetuous,  wintry  river. 
One  is  unchanged — and  He  alone, 
Th'  Immutable — the  glorious  One! 


SATURDAY    MORNING.  95 

His  plans  are  never  thwarted — He 

For  each  his  destined  portion  pours ; 

Drives  these  along  the  troubled  sea, 

Those  lands  upon  the  peaceful  shores. 

Who  reads  His  mysteries  I — who  can  tell 

The  deep  recesses  of  His  plan ! — 

Who  sees  the  great  Invisible  1 

Who  can  unveil  a  God  to  man  ? 

None ! — but  His  love  to  each  hath  given 

A  holy  visitant  from  heaven  ; 

A  guardian  spirit  from  that  sphere, 

For  an  attending  angel  here  ; — 

'Tis  Virtue  ! — and  her  kingdom  stands 

Firmly  erected  in  the  breast : 

O  see  her  lift  her  welcoming  hands, 

And  call  her  children  to  her  rest. 

What  fear  they  \ — ever  onwards  prest 

From  good  to  better,  still  improving — 

Now  their  bright  thoughts  o'er  Eden  roving, 

Now,  in  the  midst  of  earthly  night, 

Stretching  an  anxious,  eager  eye 

To  realms  of  immortality ; 


96  SATURDAY    MORNING. 

And  drinking  in  pure  Streams  of  light, 

From  the  eternal  fountains  flowing ; 

Gifts  of  joy  on  all  bestowing — 

Wiping  off  the  devy  tear 

That  drops  upon  the  sufferer's  cheek  ; 

Smiling  on  the  pure,  the  meek, 

Like  a  heavenly  comforter  ; 

Thro'  life's  discords  sweetly  breathing 

Music,  soft  as  twilight  hours  ; 

With  the  thorny  garland  wreathing 

Lilies,  roses,  fairest  flowers  ; 

Looking  beautifully  thro' 

All  the  clouds  of  grief  or  scorn, 

As  the  primrose  thro'  the  dew, 

Scattered  by  the  hand  of  morn  : 

Now  on  pinions  of  the  air — 

Now  on  ocean — now  on  land, 

Tracing  the  Almighty  hand 

All-directing — every  where. 

In  the  blue  expanse  above — 

On  earth's  robe  of  green  below 

Strewing  beauty,  shedding  love  : 


SATURDAY    MORNING.  97 


Stars  that  shine,  and  flowers  that  blow, 
Rills  that  musically  flow, 
Mountains  that  majestic  rise, 
Torches,  altars,  melodies — 
All  Thou  lovest,  leadest,  lightest : 
Thou,  of  all  things  holiest,  brightest, 
Greatest,  best !     Thy  glorious  praise 
Thus  I  utter  lowly,  lonely : 
Thou,  my  God,  my  Father  only — 
Thus  to  Thee  I  tune  my  lays. 


98 


SATURDAY    EVENING. 

Thro'  the  thick  trees  the  evening  breezes  speak, 
And  ripple  the  calm  surface  of  the  lake  ; 
Heaven  clads  itself  in  its  star-spangled  robe ; 
And  stillness  lulls  to  rest  the  weary  globe : 
Thus  days  and  weeks  roll  on — thus  all  things  tend, 
Thro'  various  issues,  to  one  common  end. 

Now  Night  resumes  her  rest-compelling  rod, 
And  all  is  hush'd  to  soft  repose,  but  God  ! 
Now  let  my  soul  direct  its  flight  to  Zft/w, 
And,  soaring  o'er  this  shadowy  darkness  dim, 
Rest  on  the  threshold  of  His  throne  divine, 
And  bring  accepted  tribute  to  His  shrine. 

The  week  is  past — the  Sabbath  dawn  comes  on 
Now  rest  in  peace — thy  daily  toil  is  done ; 
And  standing,  as  thou  standest,  on  the  brink 
Of  a  new  scene  of  being,  calmly  think 
Of  what  is  gone,  is  now,  and  soon  shall  be — 
As  one  that  trembles  on  eternity. 


SATURDAY    EVENING.  99 

For  sure  as  this  now-closing  week  is  past, 
So  sure  advancing  Time  will  close  thy  last ; 
Sure  as  to-morrow,  shall  the  awful  light 
Of  the  eternal  morning  hail  thy  sight. 

Spirit  of  Good  !  on  this  week's  verge  I  stand, 
Tracing  the  guiding  influence  of  Thy  hand  ; 
That  hand  which  leads  me  gently,  kindly  still 
Up  life's  dark,  stony,  tiresome,  thorny  hill : 
Thou,  Thou  in  every  storm  hast  sheltered  me 
Beneath  the  wing  of  Thy  benignity  ; — 
A  thousand  graves  my  footsteps  circumvent, 
And  I  exist — Thy  mercy's  monument ! 
A  thousand  writhe  upon  the  bed  of  pain — 
I  live — and  pleasure  flows  thro'  every  vein. 
Want  o'er  a  thousand  wretches  waves  her  wand — 
I,  circled  by  ten  thousand  mercies,  stand. 
How  can  I  praise  Thee,  Father !  how  express 
My  debt  of  reverence,  and  of  thankfulness ! 
A  debt  that  no  intelligence  can  count, 
While  every  moment  swells  its  vast  amount. 

For  the  week's  duties  Thou  hast  given  me  strength, 
And  brought  me  to  its  tranquil  close  at  length, 

F  2 


100  SATURDAY    EVENING. 

And  here  my  grateful  bosom  fain  would  raise 
A  fresh  memorial  to  Thy  glorious  praise  : 
And  if  inspired  by  reverent  trust, — and  free 
From  vain  presumption,  it  may  reach  e'en  Thee  ; 
But  ah !  the  least  of  all  Thy  gifts  exceeds 
The  best,  the  holiest  of  my  thoughts  or  deeds. 
Were  I  but  worthy  of  Thy  love  ! — I  will — 
If  Thy  pure  Spirit  help  me  to  fulfil 
This  solemn  pledge  :  I  will — Thy  blessing,  Lord, 
Shall  give  a  sacred  influence  to  the  word, 
And  hallow  and  confirm  the  humble  vow — 
My  friend,  my  Father  !■  O  confirm  it  now ! 


THIRD    WEEK. 


AUTUMN. 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 

Of  all  the  gifts  that  Heaven  has  given, 
The  brightest  and  the  best  k  time: 
Improved,  it  is  the  key  to  heaven  ; 
Enjoyed,  'tis  happiness  sublime. 


While  days  and  weeks  pass  gently  by, 
How  little  do  we  deem  that  these 
Are  germes  of  immortality — 
The  buds  of  mightiest  destinies  ! 


Yet  not  too  fondly  let  us  trust 
The  flitting,  fading  morning's  ray : 
All  earthly  promises  are  dust ; 
All  earthly  pyramids  are  clay. 


104 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 


Time's  visions  are  but  treachery, 
Soon  wrecked  on  dark  oblivion's  wave  ; 
Its  paths,  however  bright  they  be, 
Lead  to  one  common  spot — the  grave. 


The  grave  may  bound  the  views  of  some- 
To  me  it  is  no  boundary  ; 
For  the  dull  prison  of  the  tomb 
Is  but  the  gate  of  life  to  me. 


I  will  not  seek  my  birthright  here ; 
A  few  vile  pageants — grasp  them^-they, 
Tho'  bright  and  shining  they  appear, 
Melt  into  air,  and  pass  away. 


My  hopes  are  higher,  nobler  far — 
They  are  immortal,  splendid,  bright : 
Pure,  lofty  as  yon  morning  star, 
That  shines  with  clear  and  holy  light. 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  105 


My  thoughts  ascend  above  the  earth, 
And  seek  their  primal,  proud  abode ; 
The  country  of  their  heavenly  birth, 
The  land  of  peace,  of  joy,  of  God. 


My  mortal  robes  I'll  cast  aside, 
And  there  be  clad  as  angels  are — 
And  with  the  Sun  in  glory  ride, 
On  his  fire-girded,  dazzling  car — 


Wherever  joy  or  virtue  is — 
Farther  than  eye  could  e'er  discern  : — 
Strange !  that  a  world  so  mean  as  this 
Should  e'er  engage  my  chief  concern. 


Strange !  that  these  fleeting,  fading  forms, 
IWhich  Heaven  has  named  immortal  men, 
Rising  from  dust  like  reptile  worms, 
So  turn  to  vilest  dust  again. 

F  5 


106  SUNDAY    MORNING. 

Strange  !  that  this  nobly-fashioned  mould, 
In  which  a  very  god  might  dwell, 
Should  only  live  to  dig  for  gold — 
And  perish  in  its  narrow  cell. 


Strange  !  when  that  shining,  shifting  ore 
Is  but  delusive,  dazzling  clay — 
A  shell  men  grasp — and  grasp  no  more, 
Even  while  they  throw  the  pearl  away. 


A  higher  destiny  is  mine, 
And  brighter  hopes,  and  holier  cares  ; 
Thoughts  stretching  on  to  joys  divine  ; 
Hours  pregnant  with  eternal  years ! 


107 

SUNDAY   EVENING. 

Welcome  the  hour  of  sweet  repose, 

The  evening  of  the  Sabbath  day ! 

In  peace  my  wearied  eyes  shall  close 

When  I  have  tuned  my  vesper  lay 

In  humble  gratitude  to  Him 

Who  waked  the  morning's  earliest  beam. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  how  sweet 
In  the  calm  solitude  of  Even 
To  hold  with  heaven  communion  meet, 
Meet  for  a  spirit  bound  to  heaven  ; 
And,  in  this  wilderness  beneath, 
Pure  zephyrs  from  above  to  breathe. 

It  may  be  that  the  Eternal  Mind 

Bends  sometimes  from  His  throne  of  bliss ; 

Where  should  we  then  His  presence  find, 

But  in  an  hour  so  blest  as  this, 

An  hour  of  calm  tranquillity, 

Silent,  as  if  to  welcome  Thee  ? 


108 


SUNDAY     EVENING. 


Yes  !  if  the  Great  Invisible, 
Descending  from  His  seat  divine, 
May  deign  upon  this  earth  to  dwell — 
Where  shall  He  find  a  welcoming  shrine, 
But  in  the  breast  of  man,  who  bears 
His  image,  and  His  Spirit  shares  ? 


Now  let  the  solemn  thought  pervade 
My  soul, — and  let  my  heart  prepare 
A  throne : — Come,  veil'd  in  awful  shade, 
Thou  Spirit  of  God  !  that  I  may  dare 
Hail  Thee  ! — nor,  like  Thy  prophet,  be 
Blinded  by  Thy  bright  majesty. 


Then  turn  my  wandering  thoughts  within, 
To  hold  communion,  Lord !  with  Thee  ; 
And,  purified  from  taint  of  sin 
And  earth's  pollutions,  let  me  see 
Thine  image, — for  a  moment  prove, 
If  not  Tby  majesty,  Thy  love — 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

That  love  which  over  all  is  shed, 
Shed  on  the  worthless  as  the  just ; 
Lighting  the  stars  above  our  head, 
And  waking  beauty  out  of  dust ; 
And  rolling  in  its  glorious  way 
Beyond  the  farthest  comet's  ray. 


To  Him  alike  the  living  stream 
And  the  dull  regions  of  the  grave  : 
All  watched,  protected  all,  by  Him, 
Whose  eye  can  see,  whose  arm  can  save, 
In  the  cold  midnight's  dangerous  gloom, 
Or  the  dark  prison  of  the  tomb. 


Thither  we  hasten — as  the  sand 
Drops  in  the  hour-glass,  never  still, 
So,  gathered  in  by  Death's  rude  hand. 
The  storehouse  of  the  grave  we  fill ; 
And  sleep  in  peace,  as  safely  kept 
As  when  on  earth  we  smiled  or  wept. 


109 


110  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

What  is  our  duty  here  1  to  tend 
From  good  to  better — thence  to  best ; 
Grateful  to  drink  life's  cup, — then  bend 
Unmurmuring  to  our  bed  of  rest  ; 
To  pluck  the  flowers  that  round  us  blow, 
Scattering  their  fragrance  as  we  go. 


And  so  to  live,  that  when  the  sun 

Of  our  existence  sinks  in  night, 

Memorials  sweet  of  mercies  done 

May  'shrine  our  names  in  Memory's  light ; 

And  the  blest  seeds  we  scattered,  bloom 

A  hundred  fold  in  days  to  come.. 


Ill 


MONDAY    MORNING. 

Waked  by  Thy  sun,  again  my  thoughts  ascend 
To  Thee,  my  heavenly  Father !  and  they  blend 
In  one  devotional  hymn  of  praise  and  prayer. 
All-present  Being  !  now  the  morning  air 
Is  calm,  is  fragrant  with  Thy  Spirit — bright 
With  the  reflected  influence  of  Thy  light. 
The  trees  are  bending  with  Thy  rich  supplies  ; 
It  is  Thy  beauty-giving  hand  that  dies 
The  purple  grape, — that  thro'  the  vales,  the  meads, 
The  many-coloured  flowers  wide-blooming  spreads ; 
Crimsons  the  downy  peach, — and  skirts  the  wood 
With  many  a  golden  ridge, — and  tips  the  flood 
With  radiance  stolen  from  heaven :   the  praise  be 
Father,  Creator,  Leader,  King  Divine  !         [Thine, 
Eternal  Source  of  joy !  'tis  Thou  dost  bless 
With  all  we  hope  for,  all  that  we  possess  : 
When  the  world  sleeps  in  darkness,  Thy  pure  eye 
Looks  sweetly  out  on  its  obscurity ; 


112  MONDAY    MORNING. 

Until  the  awakened  Sun  his  standard  rears, 
And  in  his  glorious  crown  of  light  appears 
Rising  o'er  the  orient  mountains  ; — life,  renewed, 
Re-animates  the  busy  multitude 
That  swarm  upon  Earth's  bosom — Joy  again 
Waves  her  bright  wing  over  the  countless  train 
Of  beings,  whom  Heaven's  never-sleeping  eye 
Watch'd  thro*  the  night,  and  now  to  the  energy 
Of  day  recalls. — I  bow  myself  in  dust, 
And  feel  Thy  awful  hand  sublime  and  just, 
And  own  Thy  hallowed  presence — for  I  see 
O'er  all,  and  in  all,  Thy  benignity. 
And  I  would  kiss  Thy  rod — and  to  Thee  fly, 
As  my  best  refuge  :  Thou  art  ever  nigh, 
Even  in  the  shades  of  earth — and  brighter  still, 
Beyond  the  summit  of  that  clouded  hill 
Which  veils  futurity. — Now  hear  my  prayer, 
And  be  Thy  staff  my  guide,  my  steps  Thy  care ; 
Thy  call  I  follow ;  summon  where  it  may, 
Thy  hand  shall  guide — where'er  it  points  the  way ; 
Thy  light  illumine,  and  Thy  Spirit  cheer. 
Tby  influence,  ever  active,  ever  near, 


MONDAY    EVENING.  113 

Shall  gild  the  smiling  hour  with  brighter  ray, 

And  give  to  darkness  some  sweet  gleams  of  day  ; 

Shall  lead  us  gently  thro'  our  pilgrimage, 

And  drop  us  safely  in  the  lap  of  age ; 

And  watch  our  bed  of  slumber, — and  awake 

From  the  grave's  dreams,  when  that  great  morn  shall 

Upon  the  realms  of  death — and  waft  us  on,    [break 

Borne  on  Faith's  pinions,  to  the  Eternal's  throne. 


MONDAY    EVENING. 

O  God  !  Thy  kingdom  is  a  mansion  bright, 
Where  peace  and  joy  and  truth  and  love  and  light 
Mingle  harmoniously  ;  while  like  a  sun 
Thine  eye  of  holiness^  looks  sweetly  down. 
There  the  heart  rests  'midst  sacred  visions,  beaming 
From  yon  side  death, — whence  tides  of  splendour 
streaming,  •         [seat, 

Bear  from  heaven's  throne — heaven's  glowing  golden 
An  effluence  of  glory  infinite  ; 


114  MONDAY    EVENING. 

Covering  the  earth  with  hope  and  blessedness, 
And  wiping  the  wet  eyelids  of  distress  ; 
Guiding  the  blind,  encouraging  the  weak, 
And  teaching  even  lisping  tongues  to  speak 
In  accents  of  devotion ; — those  who  fall 
Uprising,  lighting,  leading,  blessing  all. 

In  the  soft  stillness  of  obscurity, 
In  the  hour  of  calm,  the  hour  of  ecstasy, 
|  In  hope,  in  memory,  in  the  thoughts  that  rise 
1  Beyond  the  clouded  mansions  of  the  skies, 
In  all  on  earth  that's  heavenly — all  above- 
Tempering  with  earthly  memories,  earthly  love — 
Where'er  there's  joy,  Thy  shadow'd  Presence  is, 
And  the  whole  universe  is  lull  of  bliss  ; 
For  earth  is  linked  to  heaven — and  all  we  see 
And  suffer,  ripens  to  felicity. 

There  is  a  Spirit  o'er  creation  spread, 
Tho'  darkness  draw  its  curtains  round  our  head, 
And  sorrow's  streams  flow  at  our  mortal  feet,— 
There  is  a  Spirit,  sanctified  and  sweet, 
That  breathes  of  other  scenes  and  holier  things, 
Broods  o'er  the  earth  with  healing  on  its  wings, 


MONDAY    EVENING.  115 

And  is  an  angel  messenger  from  heaven  : 

There  is  a  Spirit  to  our  spirits  given, 

Which  holds  communion  with  our  nobler  part, 

That  sheds  a  hallowed  influence  on  our  heart ; 

Gives  pinions  to  our  thoughts,  and  to  our  prayers, 

And  harmonizes  all  our  doubts  and  cares 

To  meek  submission — an  Intelligence 

That  gladdens  with  its  living  influence 

All  space,  all  time, — and  trains  our  earthly  eye 

To  bear  the  blaze  of  immortality. 

As  in  the  silence  of  a  cloudless  night 
The  gentle  moon  disperses  her  soft  light 
Thro'  the  low-murmuring  trees,  which  evening's  gale 
Plays  on  in  sportiveness  'midst  their  shadows  pale, 
And  the  earth  sleeps  beneath  the  sway  serene 
Of  midnight's  chaste  and  glory-circled  queen  ; 
So,  in  the  calm  of  holiness,  the  soul 
Reposes  'neath  Religion's  blest  control, 
Lighted  with  radiance  from  a  higher  sphere  : 
Nor  shall  that  radiance  e'er  desert  us  here, 
Till  all  our  earthly  labours  shall  be  done, 
And  we  be  gathered  homeward  one  by  one. 


116 


TUESDAY   MORNING. 

The  stars  have  sunk  in  yon  concave  blue, 
And  the  sun  is  peeping  thro'  the  dew ; 
Thy  Spirit,  Lord !  doth  Nature  fill- 
Before  Thee  angels'  tongues  are  still, 
And  seraphs  hush  their  golden  strings 
In  Thy  high  presence,  King  of  kings ! 
How  then  shall  t,  a  clod  of  clay, 
Or  lift  my  voice,  or  tune  my  lay ! 

Thou  !  Who  the  realms  of  space  and  time 
Dost  people  with  Thy  might  sublime  ; 
Whose  power  is  felt  below,  above, 
Felt  in  Thy  wisdom,  in  Thy  love ; 
Whose  awful  voice  is  heard  around, 
Heard  in  its  silence  as  its  sound  ; 
Whose  lovely  Spirit  doth  pervade 
Alike  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
And  shines  and  smiles  in  sorrow's  night 
As  clearly  as  in  pleasure's  light. 


TUESDAY    MORNING.  117 

Thou  in  the  evening's  silence  deep 
Cradlest  the  weary  world  in  sleep  ; 
And,  when  the  sun  towers  o'er  the  hill, 
Call'st  us  our  duties  to  fulfil. 

'Tis  Thou  who  o'er  the  billowy  sea 
Dost  ride  in  awful  majesty, 
Walkest  sublime  on  the  winds,  and  greetest 
The  Spirit  of  day,  when  fairest  and  sweetest 
It  fills  the  bosom  of  nature  with  bliss-r- 
In  moments  as  calm  and  holy  as  this. 
'Tis  then  we  see  Thee,  in  light  arrayed, 
Dissipate  all  the  twilight's  shade, 
Tuning  the  music  of  the  bee, 
Painting  the  flower's  variety, 
Waking  the  thousand  smiles  that  are  playing 
On  morning's  cheeks, — and  sweetly  straying 
With  the  mild  breeze,  over  hill  and  plain, 
Turning  to  gold  the  autumnal  grain ; 
Giving  the  rose  its  blushing  hue, 
Changing  to  diamonds  drops  of  dew, 
Calling  the  vapours  from  the  main, 
Scattering  them  o'er  the  earth  again  : 


118  TUESDAY    MORNING. 

Then  it  is  that  Nature's  throng 
Join  in  the  joyous,  general  song  ; 
Then  Thy  Spirit  shines  brighter,  clearer  ; 
Then  Thy  voice  speaks  softer,  nearer ; 
Then  Thy  sun  would  seem  to  wear 
His  festival  robes  of  beauty  rare, 
And  all  creation,  glad  and  gay, 
Revels  as  in  a  holiday. 

Lord !  Thou  hast  thunders — but  they  sleep 
Storms — but  they  now  their  prisons  keep  : 
Nothing  is^breathing  below,  above, 
But  the  spirit  of  harmony,  joy,  and  love ; 
Nothing  is  seen  or  heard  around, 
But  beauty's  smiles,  and  music's  sound  : 
Music  re-echoed  in  earth  and  air, 
Beauty  that's  visible  every  where, 
Join  the  concert — share  the  joy  ; 
Why  should  the  cares  of  earth  alloy 
Pleasures  which  heaven  itself  has  given, 
Heavenly  pleasures,  which  lead  to  heaven  ! 


119 


TUESDAY    EVENING. 

Stillness  reigns — the  vapours  steal 
Slowly  down  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  the  evening  shadows  veil 
Nature's  face  of  brightness  now  ; 
Flowers  put  off  their  glorious  dress, 
All  the  morning  smiles  are  fled, 
Earth  is  wrapt  in  loneliness 
And  the  silence  of  the  dead. 

Thus  beneath  the  hand  of  God 
Nature  wakes  and  sleeps ;  but  still 
All-obedient  to  His  nod, 
All-submissive  to  His  will. 
So  we  flourish — so  we  fade  : 
Drinking  now  life's  cup  of  joy , 
Now  on  nature's  bosom  laid, 
Treasured  for  eternity. 


120  TUESDAY    EVENING. 

All  is  mortal  but  the  soul, 
Whose  undying  energy 
Spurns  the  fettering  world's  control, 
And  upsoars,  my  God,  to  Thee. 
When  life's  evening  twilight  shrouds 
All  our  thoughts  with  care  and  gloom, 
Then  Thy  sunshine  breaks  the  clouds 
Gathered  o'er  the  wintry  tomb. 

Desolate  the  path  appears 
To  the  dim  and  distant  eye ; 
Yet  that  path  of  darkness  bears 
Flowers  of  immortality. 
O'er  it  shine  eternal  lamps  ; 
And  the  mists  so  dark  that  seem, 
Are  like  morning's  chilly  damps 
Heralding  the  sunny  beam. 

Father !  Thy  paternal  care 
Has  my  guardian  been,  my  guide, 
Every  hallowed  wish  and  prayer 
Has  Thy  hand  of  love  supplied  ; 


TUESDAY    EVENING.  121 

Thine  is  every  thought  of  bliss, 
Lett  by  hours  and  days  gone  by ; 
Every  hope  Thy  offspring  is, 
Beaming  from  futurity. 

Every  sun  of  splendid  ray ; 
Every  moon  that  shines  serene  ; 
Every  morn  that  welcomes  day  ; 
Every  evening's  twilight  scene  ; 
Every  hour  which  wisdom  brings  ; 
Every  incense  at  Thy  shrine  ; 
These — and  all  life's  holiest  things, 
And  its  fairest, — all  are  Thine. 

And  for  all,  my  hymns  shall  rise 
Daily  to  Thy  gracious  throne  : 
Thither  let  my  asking  eyes 
Turn  unwearied — righteous  One ! 
Thro*  life's  strange  vicissitude 
There  reposing  all  my  care, 
Trusting  still,  thro'  ill  and  good, 
Fixed  and  cheered  and  counselled  there. 


122  WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

All  besides  is  weak  indeed, 
Dreams  of  folly — baseless  hope. 
Earth  is  but  a  broken  reed ; 
Heaven  the  best,  the  only  prop. 
Who  would  live,  to  raise  on  earth 
Some  frail  pile  of  dust — and  die  ? 
Man  is  of  immortal  birth, 
Living  for  eternity. 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

Extinguished  is  the  last  lone  star, 
The  shadows  of  night  are  gone, 
And  lo !  in  the  east,  day's  golden  car 
Is  filled  by  the  glorious  sun. 
And  list !  for  a  thousand  voices  call — 
The  spirits  of  life  and  love — 
Attune  your  hymns  to  the  Father  of  all, 
The  Sovereign  who  reigns  above. 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING.  123 

Tis  He  who  opens  the  eastern  gates, 
Who  kindles  the  morning's  ray ; 
'Tis  He  whose  Spirit  all  animates, 
And  the  darkness  and  the  day. 
All  the  glories  of  the  field  are  His, 
All  the  music  of  the  sky  ; 
The  light  of  hope,  and  the  smile  of  bliss, 
And  nature's  song  of  joy. 

His  temple  is  yon  arch  sublime. 

Its  pillars  the  eternal  hills ; 

His  chorus  the  solemn  voice  of  time, 

Which  all  creation  fills. 

His  worshippers  are  the  countless  train 

Which  the  lap  of  nature  bears, 

And  the  boisterous  wind,  and  the  raging  main, 

And  the  silence  of  the  spheres. 

He  rides  unseen  on  the  hurrying  storm, 
He  sits  on  the  whirlwind's  car ; 
He  wraps  in  clouds  His  awful  form, 
And  travels  from  star  to  star. 

G  2 


124  WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

A  thousand  messengers  wait  His  will, 
A  million  heralds  fly, 
His  glorious  mandates  to  fulfil, 
On  the  wing  eternally. 

He  smiles — and  worlds  spring  forth  to  birth, 

And  suns  in  new  glory  rise  ; 

He  frowns — and  darkness  clads  the  earth, 

And  mantles  the  frighted  skies. 

Dost  thou  think  He  speaks  in  the  thunder's  roar, 

Or  shines  in  the  lightning's  beam  1 

Vain  man !  no  thought  of  thine  can  soar 

To  any  conception  of  Him. 

His  strength  nor  perishing  tongue  can  tell. 

Nor  immortal  hymns  rehearse ; 

'Tis  high  as  the  heaven,  'tis  dsep  as  hell. 

And  wide  as  the  universe : 

The  ocean  to  Him  is  a  dewdrop  small, 

The  mountains  an  atom  of  sand  ; 

And  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  this  earthly  ball, 

Are  dust  in  His  mighty  hand. 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING.  125 


And  O  !  can  a  Being  so  great  as  He 
Bend  down  to  the  earth  His  ear ! 
Can  children  of  clay,  so  frail  as  we 
In  His  awful  presence  appear  l. 
O  yes !  to  His  throne  even  we  may  rise 
To  us  is  His  promise  given, 
For  a  broken  heart  is  a  sacrifice 
Which  will  find  its  wav  to  heaven. 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 

The  evening  star  is  aloft  in  heaven, 

Palely  it  shines  alone  ; 

And  nought  is  awake  in  the  eye  of  even 

But  the  never-sleeping  One. 

He  mildly  looks  from  His  throne  sublime, 

Higher  than  mortal  ken, 

On  the  strange  vicissitudes  of  time, 

And  the  stranger  follies  of  men. 


126  WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 

From  thence  our  insolent  race  he  scans  ; 

They  flutter  and  pass  away, 

And  all  their  pursuits  and  all  their  plans 

Are  even  more  fragile  than  they. 

They  build  vain  visions  of  hope,  and  all, 

All  for  their  own  undoing : 

They  raise  the  pile  of  folly — and  fall 

Buried  beneath  its  ruin. 

Is  all  then  folly  ? — O  heaven  forbid ! 

Is  all  delusive  beneath  1 

No !  virtue  may  build  her  pyramid, 

Peace  twine  her  myrtle  wreath. 

Is  all  then  darkness,  all  despair, 

Is  all  then  discord  1 — No  I 

Earth  has  joys  as  bright  as  sunbeams  are ; 

There's  music  of  heaven  below. 

Follow  yon  holy  pilgrim  there, 
His  path  is  as  clear  as  day ; 
A  thousand  angels  hovering  near 
To  guide  him  on  his  way : 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING.  127 

Tho'  mountains  tremble  and  rocks  should  break, 
He  is  firmer  far  than  they ; 
If  he  slumber,  his  spirit  shall  soon  awake 
To  a  glorious  morning's  ray. 

Our  bark  is  driven  by  joy  and  woe 

O'er  the  ever-changing  wave, 

And  the  moon,  which  lights  our  footsteps  now, 

Will  shine  upon  our  grave. 

And  then  for  ever  the  glorious  one 

Shall  sink  in  the  tomb-like  main  : 

O  blest,  if  a  brighter  and  purer  sun 

Shall  beam  on  our  rising  then  ! 

Great  day !  when  a  million  lamps  shall  shine, 

With  heavenly  ether  blaze  ; 

When  a  thousand  rainbows  of  light  divine 

Shall  arch  the  eternal  space. 

Above  the  highest  worshipper, 

On  His  star-encircled  throne 

He  sits — whose  hand  shall  then  confer 

On  merit  its  amaranth  crown. 


128  WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 


/ 


The  meekest  servant,  the  humblest  son 
Of  virtue,  His  smile  shall  bless  ; 
And  shall  put  a  wreath  of  glory  on 
The  spirit  of  lowliness. 
When  many  a  towering  child  of  pride 
His  frown  shall  annihilate  ; 
There's  many  a  slave  shall  be  deified, 
And  many  a  mean  one,  great. 

There  are  eyes  that  have  never  shed  a  tear 

Of  sympathy  or  distress, 

That  shall  weep  and  wail  for  ages  there 

In  trembling  hopelessness. 

There  are  cheeks  that  misery's  dewdrops  now 

Have  furrowed  with  agony, 

That  then  shall  be  bright  with  the  holy  glow 

Of  eternal  felicity. 

Then  let  the  sands  of  existence  fall, 
The  current  6f  life  flow  fast  ; 
Our  times  are  in  God's  own  hand,  and  all, 
All  will  be  well  at  last. 


THURSDAY    MORNING. 

If  bitterness  dreg  our  earthly  cup, 
If  sorrow  disturb  our  career ; 
Eternity's  joys  can  well  fill  up 
The  chasms  of  suffering  here. 


129 


THURSDAY    MORNING. 

The  orient  is  lighted  with  crimson  glow, 

The  night  and  its  dreams  are  fled, 

And  the  glorious  roll  of  nature  now 

Is  in  all  its  brightness  spread. 

The  autumn  has  tinged  the  trees  with  gold, 

And  crimson'd  the  shrubs  of  the  hills  ; 

And  the  full  seed  sleeps  in  earth's  bosom  cold  ; 

And  hope  all  the  universe  fills. 

Hope  gladdens  the  world  with  its  living  ray, 
And  smiles  serenely  on  all  ; 
It  scatters  a  thousand  charms  in  its  way 
Over  this  earthly  ball : 

O  5 


130  THURSDAY     MORNING. 

It  has  streams  of  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
To  water  this  valley  of  death  ; 
And  brings  the  flowers  of  heaven  from  above 
For  virtue's  undying  wreath. 

O  say,  hast  thou  watch'd  the  maternal  care, 

Smiling  on  infancy ? 

O  say,  hast  thou  seen  the  joy- born  tear, 

Kright  in  a  mother's  eye ! 

Hast  thou  mark'd  the  babe  on  her  bosom  mild, 

Slumbering  in  innocence  yet  1 — 

O  she  may  forget  that  lovely  child  : 

But  God  can  never  forget. 

That  God  in  his  equal  scales  hath  weigh 'd 

Our  share  of  evil  and  good  ; 

He  hath  blended  our  portion  of  light  and  shade 

In  a  wise  vicissitude. 

He  has  temper'd  our  sunshine  with  sober  gloom, 

Lest  its  light  should  dazzle  our  sense ; 

And  has  given  a  warning  voice  to  the  tomb, 

To  summon  our  thoughts  from  hence. 


THURSDAY    MORNING.  131 

To  Thee  will  I  look,  in  Thee  confide, 
For  my  times  are  in  Thy  right  hand  ; 
And  O !  to  my  spirit  be  sanctified 
Whatever  Thy  wisdom  has  plann'd. 
My  heart  shall  never  'gainst  Thee  rebel, 
My  soul  no  murmurer  be ; 
For  all  is  conducted  wisely,  well, 
Since  all  is  conducted  by  Thee. 

O  ne'er  be  that  Father  forgotten  by  me, 

Who  never  His  children  forgot : 

The  fountain  of  wisdom  and  virtue  is  He, 

To  each  He  apportions  his  lot. 

He  is  light,  and  knowledge,  and  purity ; 

We  darkness  and  doubt  alone. 

The  fragile  children  of  dust  are  we, 

And  He— The  Eternal  One. 

His  years  decay  not — He  sits  sublime 
On  eternity's  glowing  car  ; 
His  ages  are  measured  not  by  time, 
And  the  days  that  departed  are 


ldZ  THURSDAY    MORNING. 

Add  nothing  to  His  existence ; — nought 
Shall  be  added  by  coming  years  : 
But  here  man's  utmost  stretch  of  thought 
Helpless  and  vain  appears. 

Our  days  like  the  leaves  of  autumn  fall ; 

And  yet  a  few  mornings  more, 

And  the  bell  shall  toll  for  our  funeral, 

And  the  dream  of  life  be  o'er. 

The  sun  may  in  clouds  and  storm  descend, 

And  the  shades  of  night  appear ; 

My  Father  is  there  my  heavenly  friend, 

O  what  should  my  spirit  fear  ? 


133 

THURSDAY     EVENING. 

THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

(From  the  Spanish  of  Melendez.) 

Where'er  I  turn  my  restless  eye, 

Wandering  from  earth  to  heaven,  from  sphere  to 

Great  God  !  I  feel  Thy  present  Deity,         [sphere, 

Every  where  feel  Thee — Thou  art  every  where. 

Yes !  Thou  art  there — above  the  empyreum  high, 

Veiled  all  in  light : 

Filling  creation  with  Thy  presence  bright, 

With  the  proud  splendour  of  Thy  majesty. 

The  little  flower  that  grows 

Beneath  me,  the  gigantic  mountain  steep, 

Whose  brow  is  covered  with  eternal  snows, 

Whose  roots  are  planted  in  the  deep  ; 

The  breeze  that  murmuring  blows 

Among  the  green  leaves,  rustling  in  the  sun, 

And  yonder  glorious  star,  advancing  on, 

Gladdening  earth,  heaven,  and  all  things  as  he  goes : 


13,4  THURSDAY    EVENING. 

These  tell  me  that  'tis  Thou 

Who  givest  that  sun  his  brightness — Thou  whose  wing, 

Upon  the  rapid  whirlwind  journeying, 

From  the  Aurora  to  the  west  doth  go  ; 

And  that  the  mountain's  towering  height 

Is  Thy  majestic  throne  ; 

And  that  the  flower  which  breathes  and  blooms  alone, 

Breathes,  blooms  in  Thy  pure  sight. 

'Tis  Thy  immensity 

Which  compasses  all  this,  and  more  ;  confest, 

As  in  the  greatest, — in  the  least ; — 

Atom, — or  comet  blazing  thro'  the  sky : 

Thine  is  the  circling  robe 

Of  darkness — Thine  the  subtle  veil 

Of  the  opening  morning  pale, 

When  first  she  throws  her  glories  o'er  the  globe. 

And  when  the  spring  descends 

On  the  wide  world,  and  decks  her  joyous  bowers, 

Thou  smilest  gently  in  her  loveliest  flowers ; 

Thy  spirit  with  her  sweetest  odours  blends. 

And  when  red  Sirius  bears 

His  burning  ardours  in  the  summer  hour, 


THURSDAY    EVENING-  135 

Thy  breezes  play  among  the  swelling  ears, 
And  calm  and  temper  his  too -furious  power. 
I  seek  the  leafy  shade, 

And  Thou  art  there  ; — among  the  welcoming  trees, 
I  feel  Thy  visitings  in  the  freshened  breeze  ; 
My  spirit  rests — my  cares,  my  sorrows  fade. 

Then  a  religious  fear 
Troubles  my  bosom — and  I  hear  a  sound : 
1  Humbly  adore  Him  here, 
In  this  mysterious  solitude  profound.' 
Thou  art  upon  the  mighty  waves 
Of  the  deep  sea ;  and  Thou  dost  bind 
The  bursting  fury  of  the  wind — 
Or  let  it  loose,  when  the  wild  tempest  raves. 
Where'er  I  go,  where'er  I  turn, 
I  see  Thee,  feel  Thee ! — in  the  flowery  mead, 
As  in  the  starry  field  above  our  head, 
Where  such  unnumbered  torches  burn. 
Thou  art  the  God  of  atoms — as  of  suns ! 
Of  the  poor,  perishing  worm 
That  in  the  dust  the  eye  of  mortals  shuns, 
Or  angels  pure,  who  veil  their  dazzled  form 


136  THURSDAY    EVENING. 

Before  Thee  ! — Thou  dost  hear  the  hymn 

Of  this  Thy  lowly  worshipper : — of  the  poor 

And  innocent  lamb  the  bleatings — as  the  roar 

Of  the  fierce  lion, — or  of  seraphim 

The  anthem ;  and  to  all  beneficent 

Thou  bendest  down  Thine  ear,  and  givest 

Their  destined  portion.     Thou,  who  reignest,  liyest 

Eternally,  the  offering  I  present 

Accept  in  mercy, — mercifully  view 

This  transitory  being, — let  me  stand 

As  ever  in  Thy  presence — see  Thy  hand 

In  all  things, — and  in  all  Thy  wisdom  too. 

Fill  up  my  mounting  soul 

With  holy  ardour, — that  where'er  I  tread, 

Like  Thee  I  may  a  blessed  influence  shed, 

And  own  Thee,  trace  Thee  thro'  th'  extended  whole 

Of  the  wide  universe.     The  race  of  man 

Are  all  Thy  sons — the  Tartar,  Laplander, 

Rude  Indian,  and  the  sun-burnt  African— 

Thine  image  all — and  all  my  brethren  are. 


137 


FRIDAY   MORNING. 

This  is  the  day,  when  prejudice  and  guilt 

The  blood  of  innocence  and  virtue  spilt! 

'Twas  in  those  orient  S3rian  lands  afar, 

O'er  whose  high  mountains  towers  the  morning  star  : 

Lands  now  to  tyranny  and  treachery  given, 

But  then  the  special  care  and  charge  of  heaven  : 

Lands,  now  by  ignorance  and  darkness  trod, 

Then  shining  brightest  in  the  light  of  God  ! 

Holiest  and  best  of  men !  'twas  there  thou  walkedst, 
There  with  thy  faithful,  privileged  followers  talkedst, 
Privileged  indeed,  listening  to  truth  divine 
Breathed  from  a  heart,  and  taught  by  lips,  like  thine ! 

He  that  from  all  life's  strange  vicissitude 
Drew  forth  the  living  hidden  soul  of  good  ; 
And  in  the  strength  of  wisdom,  and  the  might 
Of  peaceful  virtue  fought,  and  won  the  fight : 
His  armour  righteousness — his  conquering  sword 
A  spiritual  weapon — his  prophetic  word, 
The  arms  of  truth, — his  banners  from  above — 
His  conquests  meekness,  and  his  warfare  love. 


138 


FRIDAY    MORNING. 


He  stands  a  pillar  'midst  his  children  ;  grace 
And  majesty  and  truth  illume  his  face  ; 
He  hows  his  head,  and  dies  !  the  very  rock 
Is  rent,  and  Zion  trembles  at  the  shock  ! 
But,  tho'  he  dies,  he  triumphs — and  in  vain 
Would  unbelief  oppose  his  conquering  reign  ; 
A  reign  o'erspreading  nature — gathering  in 
Kindreds  and  nations  from  the  tents  of  sin 
To  virtue's  temple.     O  how  calm,  how  great, 
A  death  like  this  ! — come,  then,  and  venerate 
Your  Saviour  and  your  King.     All  hail !  All  hail ! 
The  songs  of  gratitude  shall  fill  the  vale, 
And  echo  from  the  mountains,  and  shall  rise 
In  one  consenting  tribute  to  the  skies. 

Sow  then  thy  seed — that  seed  will  spring,  and  give 
Rich  fruits  and  fairest  flowers,  that  will  survive 
All  chance,  all  change  :  and  tho'  the  night  may  come, 
And  tho'  the  deeper  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
A  sun  more  bright  than  ours  shall  bid  them  grow, 
And  on  the  very  grave  hope's  buds  will  blow,    [lose 
And  blow  like  those  sweet  flowers  that,  pluck'd,  ne'er 
Their  freshness,  or  their  fragrance,  or  their  hues. 


FRIDAY    EVENING,  139 

Now  the  day  calls  us  with  its  eloquent  ray  ; 
O  let  us  toil  unwearied  while  'tis  day, 
For  the  night  cometh,  all  enveloping — 
But  virtue,  that  on  spiritual  soaring  wing 
Flies  to  its  rest !  'tis  but  a  pilgrim  here, 
Shaping  its  course  towards  a  better  sphere, 
Where  its  own  mansion  is  ;  yet,  in  its  flight, 
Dropping  from  its  pinions  healing  and  delight  -, 
And  from  the  darkest  shades,  like  some  fair  star 
Of  midnight,  scattering  beams  of  light  afar. 


FRIDAY    EVENING. 

Father  !  Source  of  light  and  love  ! 
Thou,  whose  throne  of  majesty, 
Fixed  yon  thousand  suns  above, 
Gladdens  all  the  earth  with  joy  : 
Mercy  streaming,  promise  beaming, 
Let  Thy  praise  my  soul  employ. 


140  FRIDAY    EVENING. 

What  is  man,  that  he  should  share 
Goodness  bright  and  blest  as  Thine  I 
What  is  man,  that  heavenly  care, 
Heavenly  kindness,  power  divine, 
Ever  guiding,  joy  betiding, 
Should  be  his,  and  should  be  mine  ? 


From  this  narrow  vale  of  clay 

Let  me  waft  my  thoughts  to  Thee  ; 

Soar  from  night  to  heavenly  day, 

And  in  Thy  benignity 

Seek  my  pleasures — hoard  my  treasures  : 

Earth  can  be  no  home  to  me. 


On  Thy  holy  name  I  call ; 
On  Thy  sacred  footstool  stand  ; 
All  sprung  forth  from  good — and  all 
Tends  to  good  beneath  Thy  hand  : 
Streams  the  purest,  joys  the  surest, 
Flow  and  smile  at  Thy  command. 


FRIDAY    EVENING.  141 

When  the  earth  is  clad  in  gloom, 
And  the  dark  clouds  coldly  frown, 
Nature — like  a  wintry  tomb 
Wrapt  in  mists — its  brightness  gone, — 
Lustre  shedding,  pleasure  spreading, 
Then  Thy  sun  shines  out  alone . 


Grey  mists  gather  o'er  the  waves, 
Dry  leaves  rustle  in  the  rain, 
Visions  haunt  the  hilly  graves, 
And  death's  hour-glass  turns  again  : 
Solemn  warning — night  and  morning, 
To  the  careless  crowds  of  men. 


Know  ye  how,  ye  idle  ones  ! 
Sporting  by  the  torrents'  side, 
Know  ye  how  existence  runs 
To  the  eternal  ocean's  tide  ; 
Bliss  alloying,  hope  destroying, 
Scattering  joy  in  ruins  wide ! 


142  FRIDAY    EVENING. 

Careless  wanderer!  ne'er  forget 
All  the  dangers  threatening  o'er  ; — 
Do  hope's  dreams  delude  thee  vet  ? 
Soon  they  shall  delude  no  more  : 
Hope  is  faithless,  tired  and  breathless  ; 
Oft  'tis  wrecked  on  sorrow's  shore. 


Hope,  that  builds  its  airy  schemes 
On  time's  transitory  star, 
Revels  in  delusive  dreams, 
Which  an  ignis  fatuus  are  : 
Ever  smiling,  and  beguiling, 
Still  misleading  pilgrims  far. 


But  the  hope,  the  faith,  whose  tower 
Stands  upon  heaven's  arches  high, 
Well-supported  by  the  power 
Of  eternal  prophecy, 
Firm-erected,  heaven-protected, 
Never  can  in  ruins  lie. 


143 


SATURDAY    MORNING. 

The  sun  comes  forward  in  his  purple  robe 
From  the  dark  chambers  of  the  tranquil  night ; 
The  smiles  of  morning  gild  the  gladdened  globe, 
And  all  the  world  is  bathed  in  liquid  light. 
Now  love  and  pleasure  sing  their  choral  song  ; 
And,  springing  to  a  renovated  birth, 
A  thousand  spirits  of  joy  and  music  throng 
The  wide  and  beautiful  expanse  of  earth. 
As  fresh,  as  if  the  intelligent  Former's  hand 
Had  given  its  first  fairy  tints  to  day ; 
Bright  as  if  even  now  the  enamelled  land 
First  woke,  just  touched  by  his  life-giving  ray; 
So  rises  nature  from  her  nightly  sleep 
Joyous, — till  evening's  darkening  shades  descend, 
And  then  she  sinks  again  in  silence  deep : — 
Emblem  of  man !  whose  hurried  footsteps  tend 
With  daily  impulse  towards  the  welcoming  tomb. 
Father!  to  Thee  my  eager  spirit  turns, 
While  joy  and  gratitude  my  path  illume, 
And  with  rekindled  praise  my  bosom  burns. 


144  SATURDAY    MORNING. 

My  eye  looks  far  beyond  the  stars :  I  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven :  angels  of  peace,  of  light, 
Wave  their  wings  o'er  me — and  the  vale  of  death 
Is  with  Thy  radiance  beautiful  and  bright. 

Yes !  Father !  all  that's  lovely  is  from  Thee ; 
All  that  is  pure  and  excellent  is  Thine. 
Praise  Him,  thou  morning  sun  of  majesty  ! 
Thou  moon  of  midnight,  in  His  glory  shine ! 
Him  worship,  thou  fair  stream  of  life  ; — adore 
His  name  thou  sad  machinery  of  decay ! 
Sing  His  high  praise,  ye  planets  shining  o'er  : 
Ye  worms  of  dust !  come,  join  the  general  lay. 
My  soul  shall  speak  Thy  glory — hymn  more  sweet 
Never  inspired  the  lyre ; — and  never  seer 
Or  prophet  sought  a  theme  more  pure,  more  meet, 
And  never  pilgrim,  saint,  or  worshipper 
Found  a  sublimer  thought  to  dwell  upon  : — 
Thy  glory ! — 'tis  a  thought  absorbing  alk— 
Even  like  the  splendid,  ever-radiant  sun, 
Scattering  the  mists  that  with  the  morning  fall. 
And  thus  let  week  on  week  roll  swiftly  by, 
Each  in  its  hurrying  career  must  bring 


SATURDAY    EVENING,  J  45 

Our  spirits  nearer  to  eternity : 

And  every  moment  in  its  course  shall  fling 

Some  mortal  vestments  down — until  at  last, 

Hope  smiling  sweetly  thro'  the  future  hours, 

And  joyous  memory  gilding  all  the  past, 

The  mind  shall  reach  these  amaranthine  bowers 

Which  dawn  upon  the  dreaming  poet's  eye  : 

And,  resting  there  on  immortality, 

Drink  in  the  stream  of  never-dying  joy. 


SATURDAY   EVENING. 

The  cold  wind  strips  the  yellow  leaf, 
The  stars  are  twinkling  faintly  o'er  us  ; 
All  nature  wears  her  garb  of  grief: 
The  book  of  day  is  closed  before  us. 

The  songs  have  ceased, — and  busy  men 
Now  to  their  silent  nests  are  creeping ; 
The  pale,  cold  moon  looks  out  again 
On  the  tired  world  so  softly  sleeping. 
h 


146  SATURDAY    EVENING. 

O  !  in  an  hour  so  still  as  this, 

From  care,  and  toil,  and  tumult  stealing, 

I'll  consecrate  an  hour  to  bliss — 

To  meek  devotion's  holy  feeling  : 


And  rise  to  Thee — to  Thee,  whose  hand 
Unrolled  the  golden  map  of  heaven  ; 
Mantled  with  beauty  all  the  land  ; 
Gave  light  to  morn,  and  shade  to  even. 


Being,  whose  all- pervading  might 
The  laws  of  countless  worlds  disposes  ; 
Yet  gives  the  sparkling  dews  their  light — 
Their  beauty  to  the  blushing  roses. 


Thou,  ruler  of  our  destiny ! 
With  million  gifts  hast  Thou  supplied  us, 
Hidden  from  our  view  futurity, 
Unveiling  all  the  past  to  guide  us. 


SATURDAY    EVENING.  147 

Tho'  dark  may  be  earth's  vale,  and  damp, 
A  thousand  stars  shine  sweetly  o'er  us, 
And  immortality's  pure  lamp 
Gladdens  and  gilds  our  path  before  us. 


And  in  the  silence  of  the  scene 

Sweet  tunes  from  heaven  are  softly  speaking, 

Celestial  music  breathes  between, 

All  the  bright  soul  of  bliss  awaking. 


Short  is  the  darkest  night,  whose  shade 
Wraps  nature's  breast  in  clouds  of  sadness ; 
And  joy's  sweet  flowers,  that  seem  to  fade, 
Shall  bloom  anew  in  waking  gladness. 


Death's  darkness  is  more  bright  to  him 
Who  looks  beyond  in  visions  holy, 
Than  passion's  fires,  or  splendour's  dream, 
Or  all  the  glare  of  sin  and  folly. 
h  3 


148  SATURDAY    EVENING. 

The  silent  tear,  the  deep-fetched  sigh, 
Which  virtue  feels  in  hours  of  quiet, 
Are  dearer  than  pomp's  revelry, 
Or  the  mad  laugh  of  frenzied  riot ; 


Smiles  from  a  conscience  purified, 
Far  lovelier  than  the  fleeting  glory 
Conferred  in  all  a  monarch's  pride, 
Embalmed  in  all  the  light  of  story. 


This  joy  be  ours — our  weeks  shall  roll — 
And  let  them  roll — our  bark  is  driven      , 
Safe  to  its  harbour — and  our  soul 
Awaking,  shall  awake  in  heaven. 


FOURTH    WEEK. 


WINTER. 


X  £  Cuft    fr<  v**    ^  ^C***jK*tj     "%^—y    ^y 


TP  %> 


SUNDAY    MORNING. 

God  of  the  morning!  Thou,  the  sabbath's  God! 

Round  whose  bright  footsteps  thousand  planets  play ; 

A  million  beings  at  Thy  mighty  nod 

Are  born ; — Thy  frown  turns  millions  more  to  clay. 

How  great  Thou  art — an  unimagined  deep 

Of  wisdom  and  of  power — Thy  laws  how  sure — 

Thy  way  how  full  of  mystery — Thou  dost  keep 

Thy  court  among  the  heavens,  sublime  and  pure 

And  unapproachable  ;  the  tired  eye  breaks 

Ere  it  can  reach  Thee : — who  can  fathom  Thee  ! 

Who  read  Thy  counsels !    Thought  exhausted  seeks 

Thy  path  in  vain.     'Tis  o'er  the  mighty  sea, 

On  the  tall  mountain,  in  the  rushing  wind, 

Or  the  mad  tempest. — In  a  cloudy  car 

Wrapt  in  thick  darkness,  rides  the  Eternal  Mind, 

O'er  land  and  ocean,  and  from  star  to  star. 


152  SUNDAY    MORNING. 

Hast  thou  not  seen  Him  in  his  proud  career, 

Or  heard  His  awful  voice  ?    O  look  around, 

For  He  is  always  visible,  always  near. 

Listen  to  His  eloquent  words,  in  every  sound 

Of  zephyr,  of  waterfall,  or  birds,  or  bees, 

Or  thousand  songs,  these  sweet  and  those  sublime  . 

All  nature's  intellectual  harmonies, 

And  the  soft  music  of  the  stream  of  time. 

See  Him  in  the  vernal  beauty  of  the  flower, 

In  the  ripe  glory  of  the  autumnal  glow ; 

In  summer's  rich  and  radiant  festal  hour, 

In  winter's  purest,  fairest  robes  of  snow  : 

There  E.rt  Thou ! — not  in  temples  built  by  the  hand 

Of  vanity — by  the  unproductive  toil 

Of  the  hot  brow,  or  by  the  fierce  command 

Of  tyrants,  or  with  shame-collected  spoil. 

Thy  temple  is  the  universe  !  Thy  throne 

Raised  on  the  stars :  Thy  light  is  every  where : 

And  ceaseless  music  hymns  th*  Eternal  One 

All-eloquent — nor  can  the  listening  ear 

Mistake  that  homage,  which  all  time,  all  space, 

Pours  forth  to  Thee ;  none  but  the  dead,  the  dull. 


SUNDAY    MORNING.  153 

Who  sees  not  Thy  bright  smile  in  nature's  face ! 
Who  Thy  high  spirit,  pure  and  beautiful, 
Marks  not  throughout  existence  !  all  we  have 
And  all  we  hope  for  is  Thy  gift :  and  man 
Without  Thee  is  a  faint  and  fettered  slave, 
Driven  by  the  winds  of  passion,  without  plan 
Or  purpose,  or  pursuit  becoming : — Thou 
Art  great,  and  great  are  all  Thy  works,  and  great 
Shall  be  Thy  praise.    Before  Thy  throne  we  bow  ; 
To  Thee  our  prayers,  our  vows  we  consecrate, 

0  Thou  eternal  Being  !  clad  in  light, 

1  in  the  dust  before  Thy  presence  fall, 
And  ask  for  wisdom  in  Thy  hallowed  sight, 
To  lead  my  steps  to  Thee.     How  calmly  all 
Sleeps  in  the  stillness  of  the  sabbath  morn, 
As  if  to  sanctify  the  sacred  day ! 

The  spirit  of  peace,  on  the  mild  zephvrs  borne, 
Glides  gently  on  the  tranquil  morning's  ray ; 
And  in  a  solemn  pause  all  nature  seems 
To  feel  the  present  Deity  :  He  speaks 
In  the  twilight  melodies — smiles  in  the  fair  beams 
Which  from  His  locks  the  star  of  morning  shakes. 
h  5 


154 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 


Heaven  is  Hi9  canopy,  His  footstool  earth, 
A  thousand  worlds  His  throne  :  O  Lord,  to  Thee, 
Holiest  and  mightiest  source  of  light — of  worth — 
Be  praise  and  glory  thro'  eternity  ! 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

Sweetly  is  the  Sabbath  fled, 
Day  of  peace  and  rest  to  me , 
"  Let  Thy  name  be  hallowed." 
Now  my  spirit  soars  to  Thee, 
Darkness  deep  or  distance  wide 
Cannot  man  from  God  divide. 

O'er  heaven's  thousand  burning  lamps 
Towers  Thy  glorious  palace  high  ; 
Thro'  the  evening's  twilight  damps, 
O'er  the  morning's  splendent  sky : 
From  the  orient  to  the  west, 
Thou  art  present,  Mightiest ! 


SUNDAY    EVENING.  155 

Wisdom  sees  Thee  shining  brightly 
In  the  starry  worlds  above  ; 
Virtue  hears  Thee  speaking  nightly 
From  those  orbs  of  light  and  love  : 
Smiling  youth  and  hoary  age 
Praise  Thee  in  their  pilgrimage. 


Wheresoe'er  Thy  name  is  known- 
Every  where — an  altar  stands 
Raised  to  Thee,  the  Eternal  One, 
By  devotion's  holy  hands  : 
Thou  art  an  undying  flame, 
Shining  thro'  all  time  the  same. 


Piety,  Thy  favourite  child, 
Gently  leads  our  hearts  to  Thee  ; 
Virtue,  like  an  angel  mild, 
Heralded  by  Piety, 
Guides  us  with  her  torches  bright, 
Thro'  time's  solitary  night. 


156  SUNDAY    EVENING. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  holy  name, 
Lord  of  spirits  and  of  men  ; 
Ne'er  may  virtue's  sacred  flame 
Die  within  our  souls  again  ; 
But  conduct  Thy  pilgrims  on 
To  Thy  high  and  heavenly  throne. 


Be  our  journey  short  or  long, 
Yet  we  know  not ; — but  we  know, 
Days  and  weeks  and  ages  throng 
Time's  unintermitting  flow ; 
And  to-morrow,  or  to-day 
Shall  our  bark  be  swept  away. 


Roll,  thou  ever-flowing  tide ; 
We,  upon  the  billows  driven, 
O'er  the  mighty  stream  shall  ride 
To  the  peaceful  port  of  heaven : 
There  no  shipwrecks  strew  the  shore, 
There  nor  waves  nor  tempests  roar. 


MONDAY    MORNING.  157 


Trim  we  then  our  little  sail ; 
Calmly  let  us  onward  steer  : 
Blow,  thou  heaven-directing  gale  ! 
Ocean,  waft  the  mariner ! 
See  thy  haven,  see  thy  home  ; 
Come,  thou  weary  traveller,  come! 


MONDAY    MORNING. 

And  so  the  active  week  again 

Its  course  begins — and  so  renewed 

Our  moments'  busy  multitude, 

Falling  like  rapid  drops  of  rain, 

Sink  in  the  grave  ; — and  so  we  die  : 

The  woods  will  have  lost  their  harmony, 

Life's  sun  sink  down  in  the  gloomy  west — 

The  beauty  that  gladdened  the  eye  is  faded, 

The  spirit  of  joy  is  hush'd  to  rest, 

The  smiles  which  delighted  the  soul  are  shaded 


158  MONDAY    MORNING. 

The  stars  of  heaven  are  clouded, 

And  the  glorious  brightness  of  day ; 

And  he  who  on  rapture's  bosom  lay, 

In  the  funeral  bier  is  shrouded. 

Peace  smiled  from  her  sanctuary, 

She  smiled — but  smiles  no  more ; 

For  the  grave  has  closed  its  prison-door 

On  the  pilgrim  weak  and  weary. 

In  frowns  and  storms  the  morning  calls  ; 

And  man,  who  was  yesterday  glad  and  gay 

As  the  evening  ephemera, 

Like  the  ephemera  falls. 

Long  and  sweet  is  the  tired  one's  sleep  ; 

But  calmer  his  sleep  and  softer  his  bed 

Whose  pillow  is  made  of  the  grave-clod  deep, 

With  the  green  grass  over  his  head. 

Curtained  is  he  by  the  vapour's  damp, 

Lulled  by  the  song  of  the  even ; 

Lighted  is  he  by  the  pale  moon's  lamp, 

Watched  by  the  eye  of  heaven. 

Others  may  hear  the  heavy  bell  toll, 

Others  the  funeral  train  may  see  : 


MONDAY    MORNING.  159 

He  hears  no  dirge  for  his  slumbering  soul, 

He  is  sleeping  tranquilly. 

There  let  him  rest, — he  toiled  awhile, 

And  now  he  throws  off  his  burden  of  toil. 

There  is  a  world  whose  cares,  like  this, 

Can  never  disturb  the  calm  of  bliss, 

Where  He,  who  is  the  great  light  of  all, 

In  His  own  peculiar  glory  shineth  ; 

Who  turned  in  His  hand  this  worldly  ball, 

And  its  hopes  and  its  memories  sweetly  entwineth. 

He  raised  heaven's  azure  arch  sublime 

On  pillars  of  strength  that  totter  never  ; 

Man  is  the  victim  of  death,  of  time, 

Thou  remainest  the  same  for  ever. 

These  shall  perish,  while  Thou  endurest, 

These  as  a  vestment  shalt  Thou  change  ; 

Thou  remainest  strongest,  surest, 

Thro'  eternity's  endless  range. 

Thou  Thyself  art  Eternity— 

'Tis  but  another  name  for  Thee  ! 

Suns  may  be  darkened,  and  planets  shake, 

Earthquakes  may  stony  mountains  break, 


160  MONDAY    MORNING. 

Comets  may  swallow  up  the  sea : 
But  Thou,  unmoved  as  the  splendid  sun, 
This  sandy  desert  shining  on, 
Lookest  on  creation  and  decay, 
And  still  pursuest  Thy  glorious  way, 
Wrapt  in  Thy  own  immensity. 

What  should  we  fear  ]  waking  or  sleeping, 
Man  is  alike  in  Thy  holy  keeping. 
Let  him  not  shrink,  tho'  his  bark  be  driven 
By  the  mad  storm — let  nought  alarm  him ; 
The  tempest  may  burst,  but  cannot  harm  him 
Safely  he  steers  to  his  port  in  heaven. 
God  is  around  us,  o'er  us,  near  us, 
What  have  His  children  then  to  fear  ? 
Is  He  not  always  present  to  hear  us, 
Willing  to  grant,  as  willing  to  hear  ? 


161 


MONDAY    EVENING. 

Calmly  in  the  evening  hour 
Wearied  Earth  reposes  now  ; 
Silence  rules  with  gentle  power, 
Watching  from  the  mountain's  brow 
The  exhausted  world ; — 'tis  still 
As  if  death  were  present — all, 
But  the  unwearied  waterfall, 
But  the  breezes  on  the  hill. 

Nature,  in  her  veil  arrayed, 
Looks  as  if  th'  Eternal  One, 
Curtained  in  the  general  shade, 
All  His  toils  and  cares  had  done, 
And  reposed — but  no !  yon  arch, 
Shedding  beams  of  glory  far, 
Planet,  sun,  or  falling  star, 
Only  light  His  glorious  march. 


162  MONDAY    EVENING. 

Fain  my  heavenward  dreams  would  rise 
To  those  holy  precincts,  trod 
By  the  Ruler  of  the  skies  ; 
Lighted  by  the  fires  of  God. 
Where  the  lamps  of  Eden  burn, 
Where  the  sun  of  Eden  glows — 
There  my  spirit  shall  repose, 
Thither  shall  the  pilgrim  tum. 

Sometimes  from  that  holy  place 
Heart-disturbing  visions  come, 
Doubts  and  terrors  and  distress, 
Saddening  fear,  and  thoughts  of  gloom  :- 
These  are  earthly ; — let  them  fly 
At  the  dawn  of  heavenly  light  ; 
For  a  sun  in  glory  bright 
Soon  shall  fill  eternity. 

Moral  beauty  there  shall  stand 
Perfected  in  heavenly  strength  ; 
Joy  shall  find  its  fatherland, 
Peace  its  own  abode  at  length : 


MONDAY    EVENLNG.  163 

In  one  love,  one  law,  one  faith, 
All  shall  there  united  be, 
'Neath  one  common  master — He, 
He  has  vanquished  sin  and  death. 

Land  of  light  and  land  of  love ! 
Let  thy  glories,  streaming  fair 
From  their  radiant  seats  above, 
Guide  us  and  protect  us  here : 
Lord !  the  future's  veil  withdraw, 
That  thro'  mists  of  darkening  time 
We  may  see  heaven's  heights  sublime, 
Even  as  Moses  Canaan  saw ! 

Lord !  O  let  Thy  kingdom  come, 
Come  in  all  its  loveliness ; 
Be  it  our  eternal  home — 
Place  of  refuge  from  distress ; 
Seat  of  hope,  and  sun  of  bliss, 
Bright  with  all  the  beams  of  heaven  : 
World,  to  which  more  joys  are  given,- 
Than  the  sorrows  felt  in  this. 


164 


TUESDAY    MORNING. 

Almighty  One !  I  bend  in  dust  before  Thee, 

Even  so  veil'd  cherubs  bend  ; — 
In  calm  and  still  devotion  I  adore  Thee, 

All-wise,  all-present  friend ! 
Thou  to  the  earth  its  emerald  robes  hast  given, 

Or  curtained  it  in  snow  ; 
And  the  bright  sun,  and  the  soft  moon  in  heaven, 

Before  Thy  presence  bow. 

Thou  in  Thy  wisdom  spread'st  the  map  of  nature, 

That  map  so  fair  and  bright : 
Reared'st  the  arch  of  heaven — on  every  creature 

Pouring  its  streams  of  light. 
Thou  feed'st  with  dew  the  early  spring-rose  glowing, 

Quickenest  the  teeming  sea  ; 
Thine  is  the  storm  thro'  the  dark  forest  blowing, 

Thine,  heaven's  soft  harmony. 


TUESDAY    MORNING.  165 

Thine  is  the  beam  on  ocean's  bosom  glancing, 

Thine  is  the  thunder-cloud, 
Thine  are  the  lamps  that  light  our  steps,  advancing 

To  the  tomb's  solitude. 
Thou  speakest — and  all  nature's  pregnant  bosom 

Heaves  with  Thy  mighty  breath  ; 
Thou  frownest— man,  even  like  a frost-nipp'd  blossom, 

Drops  in  the  lap  of  death. 

A  thousand  worlds  which  roll  around  us  brightly, 
Thee  in  their  orbits  bless  ; 

Ten  thousand  suns  which  shine  above  us  nightly, 
Proclaim  Thy  righteousness. 

Thou  didst  create  the  world — 'twas  Thy  proud  man- 
That  woke  it  into  day ;  [date, 

And  the  same  power  that  measur'd,  weigh'd,  and 
Shall  bid  that  world  decay.  [spann'd  it, 

Thou  Power  sublime !  whose  throne  is  firmly  seated 

On  stars  and  glowing  suns ; 
O  could  I  praise  Thee — could  my  soul  elated 

Wait  Thee  seraphic  tones, 


166  TUESDAY    MORNING. 

Had  I  the  lyres  of  angels — could  I  bring  Thee 

An  offering  worthy  Thee, 
In  what  bright  notes  of  glory  would  I  sing  Thee 

Blest  notes  of  ecstasy ! 

Here  is  my  song,  a  voice  of  mortal  weakness 

Just  breathing  from  my  breast ; 
A  mingled  song,  of  worthlessness  and  meekness 

And  feeble  hope,  at  best. 
In  heaven  that  voice,  up  to  Thy  throne  ascending, 

Should  speak  as  angels  speak, 
And  joy  and  confidence  and  glory  blending, 

Thy  seat  of  light  should  seek. 

Eternity !  Eternity ! — how  solemn, 

How  terrible  the  sound ! 
Here,  leaning  on  Thy  promises — a  column 

Of  strength — may  1  be  found. 
O  let  my  heart  be  ever  Thine,  while  beating, 

As  when  't  will  cease  to  beat  ; 
Be  Thou  my  portion — till  that  awful  meeting, 

When  I  my  God  shall  greet. 


167 


TUESDAY    EVENING. 

The  Earth  again  puts  on  its  evening  dress  ; 

And  wakening  yon  innumerable  stars, 

A  twilight,  milder  than  the  eye  of  day 

And  fairer  than  the  calm  of  night,  is  spread 

O'er  universal  nature  ;  from  above 

Shadows  descend,  solicitous  to  veil 

The  sins  of  the  reposing  world  ; — to  soothe 

Hearts  beating  with  anxiety, — to  lull 

The  tumults  of  ambition, — quell  the  thirst 

Of  greedy  avarice, — and  to  cheat  the  care 

Of  wantonness,  that  crowns  its  head  with  thorns. 

The  perjured  tongue,  the  rapine-scheming  head, 

The  murderous  hand,  the  vile  and  counterfeit  heart, 

The  eye  that  sheds  false  tears — thou,  darksome  night ! 

Veil  in  thy  charity— be  the  o'erarching  tomb, 

Tho'  for  a  moment,  to  the  mass  of  sin 

Which  morn,  alas !  shall  wake  again, — and  day 

Let  loose  like  bandits  on  the  unsheltered  world. 


168 


TUESDAY    EVENING. 


And  O  !  if  in  the  visions  of  the  night 

A  ministering  angel  might  descend, — a  voice 

Be  heard  in  the  still  silence,  to  recall 

Those  wanderers  to  the  fold  of  blessedness ! 

For  ah!  Thy  shade,  tho'  dark  and  deep  it  be, 

Will  hide  them  not  from  Him,  to  whom  the  gloom 

Is  bright  as  noontide.     Let  the  solemn  thought 

Come  o'er  my  soul,  that  even  as  now  in  sleep, 

So  shall  we  lay  us  down  in  death,  ere  long, 

And  for  a  gloomier  season.     Kings  and  slaves 

Shall  then  repose  upon  the  self-same  bed, 

That  bed,  the  cold  clods  of  the  valley.     There, 

There  must  all  sleep,  seed  in  the  bosom  of  earth, 

To  shoot  as  weeds  or  flowers,  when  the  fair  spring 

Of  immortality  shall  dawn ;  and  then 

Be  gathered  with  the  general  harvest  in, 

And  garnered  in  the  stores  of  heaven, — or  swept 

With  the  vile  chaff  away.    Eternal  God ! 

Thou,  who  art  wrapt  in  robes  of  majesty 

And  dazzling  light — the  Lord,  the  Judge  of  all ! 

To  Thee  we  would  commend  us — Hear  our  prayers, 

Do  all  Thy  will  on  earth  as  done  in  heaven, 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING.  109 

And  be  Thy  law,  our  law,— Thy  will,  our  will! 
Thou  wilPst  Thy  children's  happiness  ;  Thy  hand, 
Thy  guardian  hand  has  given  us  that  pure  joy 
Which  angels  share — that  silent  source  of  bliss, 
That  sweet  anticipation  of  Thyself, 
Flowing  from  a  pure  heart  i — Thy  will  be  done. 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 

All-seeing  God  !  before  whose  throne  sublime 
Lies  open  the  thick-crowded  book  of  time, 
Whose  eye,  when  glancing  o'er  the  varied  page, 
Reads  the  departed,  or  the  coming  age  ; 
Thou,  whose  resistless  energies  control 
The  aberrations  of  my  wandering  soul, 
Whom,  in  the  midst  of  darkness  and  distress, 
I  see,  and  feel,  confide  in,  and  confess  : 
Lord  !  if  one  thought  devout,  one  prayer  divine, 
Break  from  my  breast,  accept  it— for  'tis  Thine  ! 


170 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING. 


God  !  in  Thy  presence,  glory's  glittering  gleam 
And  pomp's  parade  are  desolate  and  dim. 
What  is  ambition's  gay  and  garish  ray  ? 
Less  than  the  glow-worm  in  the  eye  of  day. 
Before  Thee  folly  drops  its  darling  dress, 
And  stands  unveil'd  in  its  own  nakedness. 
Proud  as  he  is — and,  towering,  tho'  he  can 
Erect  himself — man  is  at  best  but  man : 
Tho'  high  his  destiny,  privileged  his  state, 
Great  in  possession,  and  in  purpose  great ; 
Tho'  honour  gild  his  bright  escutcheon  o'er, 
And  heralds  oft  have  told  its  fame  before, 
What  boots  it  1    Time,  whose  devastating  sway 
Sweeps  crowns  and  coronets,  sceptres,  swords,  away; 
Time  will  not  spare  him, — wherefore  should  it  spare  t 
Look  at  yon  grave-stone — he  shall  slumber  there, 
Privileged,  if  when  he  rests  in  peace  below, 
One  flower  obscure  should  o'er  his  ashes  grow. 
Is  he  lamented  \  if  a  tear  should  wet 
One  faithful  eye,  to-morrow  'twill  forget 
Its  object ; — yet  another  day,  that  eye 
Shall  in  eternal  uight  be  dark  and  dry. 


WEDNESDAY    MORNING.  171 

Gloomy  are  evening's  shadows  when  they  fall 
And  wrap  the  face  of  nature  with  their  pall : 
But  these  are  brightness  to  sin's  moral  night ; — 
Dark  is  the  grave ;  but  even  the  grave  is  light 
To  crime's  domain  of  terror.    Tempests  sweep 
The  swelling  billows  of  the  threatening  deep  ; 
The  storm  may  burst,  the  maddened  billows  roll, 
No  ocean  rages  like  a  tortured  soul. 

O  holy  Virtue — pure  and  fair  thou  art ! 
Tby  robes  are  light ;  thy  unpolluted  heart 
Is  spotless  as  the  falling  snow ;  thy  face 
Beams  with  supernal  youth,  and  joy  and  grace. 
Even  like  a  summer's  night  our  life  rolls  by, 
And  time  still  calls  us  to  eternity  : 
Soon  life's  last  sand  shall  drop — another  scene 
Shall  in  its  awful  dawning  then  begin. 
Say,  art  thou  ready  ?  has  the  grave's  dark  room 
For  thee  no  terrors  1 — Lo  !  its  darkest  gloom 
A  light  from  heaven  illumines — and  a  voice 
Speaks  from  the  clouds :  'Awake !  come  forth,  rejoice ! 

All-seeing  God !  in  lowliness  I  bow 
My  proud  heart  in  the  dust  before  Thee  now. 
I  2 


172 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 


Thou  giv'st  to  each  his  portion  ;  and  to  each 
His  forward  way  to  heaven  and  Thee  dost  teach  : 
My  lot  is  in  Thy  hand — the  night,  the  day, 
The  moon's  pale  glimmering,  as  the  sunny  ray, 
Are  Thine — and  Thine  the  midnight  of  the  grave 
O  be  Thou  there  to  strengthen  and  to  save ; 
To  light  death's  valley  with  Thy  beam  of  love, 
And  smile  a  welcome  to  Thy  throne  above. 


WEDNESDAY   EVENING. 

The  hour  of  peace  resumes  again 
Its  tranquil,  silent,  solemn  reign  ; 
Sorrow  a  short  cessation  knows 
On  the  soft  couch  of  calm  repose, 
And  all  is  still— The  Eternal  One 
Hath  risen  from  His  glorious  throne, 
And  on  the  midnight's  raven  pinions 
Surveys  His  infinite  dominions. 

And  who  but  Thou  the  world  could  keep, 
When  buried  thus  in  evening's  sleep  1 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING.  173 

Who  bid  that  sleeping  world  awake, 
When  o'er  the  hills  the  day-beams  break  ? 
Who  call  those  day-beams  from  their  bed, 
Where  nature  is  by  darkness  led  % 
Thou,  Lord,  alone !  Thy  mighty  hand 
Doth  all  create,  and  all  command. 
In  every  thing  that  hand  we  see, 
And  more  than  every  thing  in  Thee. 

But  who  can  count  the  countless  throng 
That  wakes  to  hear  the  morning's  song, 
Or  tell  the  infinite  train  that  rest, 
O'erwatched  by  Thee,  on  evening's  breast : 
All  from  Thy  presence  joy  receiving, 
All  on  Thy  generous  bounty  living  ? 
And  we,  the  lowliest  and  the  least, 
With  heaven's  peculiar  favour  blest ! 

Did  earth  upon  our  care  depend, 
Decay  would  soon  with  misery  blend ; 
Were  we  the  counsellors  of  heaven, 
All,  all  would  be  to  ruin  driven  : 
We,  helpless  as  the  ephemeral  fly, 
And  sightless  as  the  adder's  eye. 


174  WEDNESDAY    EVENING. 

But  Thou,  in  wisdom's  chains  hast  bound 
The  mighty  universe  around  ; 
And  mountain's  height,  and  vale's  recess, 
Speak  Thy  unwearied  walchfulness  ; 
And  every  sun  that  splendour  gives, 
And  every  orb  that  light  receives, 
And  solemn  night,  and  joyous  day, 
And  mountain  stream  and  forest  lay, 
And  waves  and  waterfalls  and  showers, 
And  trees  and  shrubs  and  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  that  nature's  face  reveals, 
And  all  that  nature's  womb  conceals, 
Space,  earth,  heaven,  time,  eternity, 
Are  all  upheld,  great  God  !  by  Thee. 

Ours  is  a  hurried  pilgrimage, 
Youth  beckons  to  the  steps  of  age, 
And  youth  and  age  too  swiftly  meet, 
The  angel  of  the  tomb  to  greet ; 
And  soon  the  rays  of  life  are  gone, 
And  soon  the  time-enduring  sun, 
Which  shines  so  brightly  o'er  our  head, 
Shall  shine  upon  our  funeral  bed 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING.  175 

Enough — if  while  we  journey  here, 
Some  visions  from  that  holier  sphere, 
Where  the  great  Spirit  sits,  arrayed 
In  splendour,  light  this  vale  of  shade. 
Enough — if  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
Some  heavenly  strains  should  reach  our  ears, 
Remotely  echoed  from  the  hymn 
Of  cherubim  and  seraphim. 
Enough — if  in  these  earthly  bowers 
Some  leaves  of  those  immortal  flowers, 
Which  bloom  in  living  fragrance  sweet, 
Should  grow  spontaneous  at  our  feet. 

Yes  !  such  Thy  servants,  Lord !  have  known, 
Such  effluence  from  Thy  burning  throne : 
And  such  be  mine — and  when  at  last 
Life's  summer  evening  shall  be  past, 
The  shades  of  night  shall  curtain  me, 
And  I  shall  slumber,  watched  by  Thee  ! 


176 


THURSDAY    MORNING. 

Thou  best  of  Beings  !  —  now  the  night  is  fled, 
And  day  awakes  in  all  its  bliss  again ; 
Man,  rising  from  his  heaven-protected  bed, 
Is  lanched  on  duty's  ever-flowing  main. 
Thou  art  the  Lord !  alike  the  day,  the  night, 
Thy  love  proclaim,  Thy  sacred  presence  feel : 
Thou  smilest  in  the  Aurora's  purple  light, 
And  wrapp'st  Thyself  in  evening's  solemn  veil. 
God  !  Thou  art  Love  !  repeats  the  youthful  spring, 
God!  Thou  art  Love!  the  summer  days  proclaim; 
God  !  Thou  art  Love !  the  autumnal  valleys  sing, 
And  hoary  winter  echoes  back  the  name. 
Thou  rock'st  the  cradle  of  sweet  infancy, 
Lead'st  active  youth  thro'  its  fair  path  of  flowers, 
And  manhood  owes  its  golden  fruit  to  Thee  ; 
To  Thee  old  age  its  calm  and  lovely  hours. 
Thou  deck' st  all  nature  with  its  swan-like  robe, 
Coverest  the  snow  with  million  diamonds'  gleam. 


THURSDAY    MORNING.  177 

Bid'st  icy  pyramids  tower  above  the  globe, 
And  build'st  Thy  crystal  bridges  o'er  the  stream. 
How  infinite  Thy  works ! — the  great,  the  small, 
Rich  with  Thy  bounty,  teeming  with  Thy  love, 
All  fraught  with  pure  intelligence,  and  all 
Tending  to  perfect  bliss, — where  Thou  above 
Shalt  justify  Thy  purpose.     We  below, 
The  moral  subjects  of  vicissitude, 
Would  to  Thy  holy  dispensations  bow, 
Secure  that  all  must  end  in  infinite  good. 
How  mild,  how  wise,  how  beautiful  Thy  reign ! 
Thy  sun — an  image  of  Thyself — O  Lord  ! 
Shines  even  upon  the  unthankful ;  and  Thy  rain 
Is  on  the  unrighteous,  as  the  holy,  pour'd. 
Existence  hangs  upon  Thy  fostering  cares, 
And  even  the  worst  partake  those  cares  divine ; 
Ingratitude  itself  Thy  favour  shares  : — 
Ingratitude ! — 'midst  favpurs  such  as  Thine ! 
Ingratitude  to  Him,  whose  bounty  gave 
Life,  and  the  joys  of  life ;  who  leads  us  on 
With  gentle  guidance  even  to  the  grave  ? 
But  who,  alas  !  is  not  ungrateful  ?  None 
i  5 


178  THURSDAY    MORNING. 

His  love  protects  us,  leads  us,  lights  us,  cheers  ; 
Gives  to  our  morning,  brightness,  beauty,  bliss : 
Conducts  us  gently  to  the  eve  of  years, 
Crowns  us  with  hope,  and  peace,  and  happiness. 
My  God !  my  Father ! — on  Thee  will  I  rest — 
Rest  with  unbounded  confidence  on  Thee  ; 
No  slavish  fears  shall  now  enthrall  my  breast, 
I  stand  erect  in  holiest  liberty. 
Thou  dwell'st  in  light  unsearchable — and  here 
Thy  children  in  a  night  of  darkness  roam  ; 
But  earth  shall  not  detain  the  wanderer  : 
Heaven  is  his  destiny,  and  heaven  his  home. 
There  peace  and  love,  in  holiest  union  bound, 
Shall  gild  with  everlasting  smiles  the  scene, 
And  God's  pure  presence  scattering  light  around, 
Fill  every  heart  with  joy  and  bliss  serene. 


170 


THURSDAY    EVENING. 

The  day  is  done  ; — the  night  comes  calmly  forth, 
Bringing  sweet  rest  upon  the  wings  of  even : 
The  golden  wain  rolls  round  the  silent  north, 
And  earth  is  slumbering  'neath  the  smiles  of  heaven. 
Like  yon  celestial  torches,  let  me  press 
Forward — and  heavenward — on  my  destined  way  : 
Clad,  like  the  stars,  in  robes  of  holiness, 
Bright,  like  the  stars,  with  joy's  enrapturing  ray. 
Calm  evening !  whose  mild  presence  can  restore 
The  peace  ne'er  found  amidst  the  world's  rude  cares, 
Can  bid  the  weeping  eyelids  weep  no  more, 
And  chase  all  misery — all,  except  despair's ! 
When  round  the  world  we  look,  how  many  a  grief 
Invites  the  soul  to  sober  thought,  and  checks 
The  gush  of  confident  pride  ; — pangs  that  relief 
Approaches  not, — and  melancholy  wrecks 
Of  once  fair-flattering  happiness,  now  scattered 
On  the  stormy  shores  of  life ;  what  prospects  blighted! 


180  THURSDAY    EVENING. 

What  piles  of  fond  anticipation  shattered. 
And  gaudy  dreams  in  which  the  soul  delighted. 
These  all  may  serve  to  loosen  the  dull  fetter 
Which  binds  us  to  this  world — and  bid  us  look 
Beyond  it  to  a  brighter  and  a  better ; 
And  read  the  page  of  that  magnificent  book, 
Where  are  the  records  of  all  ages  past 
And  present,  and  all  ages  yet  to  come  : 
Existence'  infant  moments,  and  its  last, 
From  the  earth's  first  awaking,  to  its  tomb. 

Life's  scenes  are  rich  in  eloquence,  and  truth, 
And  wisdom ; — and  their  flow  rets  sweetly  grow 
In  the  dark  valley  of  affliction's  ruth, 
As  in  joy's  gay  and  summer  sunshine  glow. 
Be  it  our  lot  to  pluck  them,  and  to  twine 
Their  separate  beauties  in  one  moral  wreath, 
To  decorate  life's  ever-crumbling  shrine  ; 
To  hang  upon  the  canopy  of  death. 
The  steady  stream  of  virtue  flows  serenely, 
Till  in  eternity's  vast  ocean  lost ; 
Tho'  the  rude  winds  of  chilling  time  blow  keenly, 
And  bind  its  surface  in  the  fettering  frost ; 


THURSDAY    EVENING'  181 

Still  it  flows  calmly  on — and  still  shall  flow, 
And  fertilize  the  earth : — And  can  it  ever 
Sleep  in  its  energetic  progress  ?  No ! 
Its  course  shall  never  be  impeded — never  ! 

Day  after  day,  the  light  of  heaven  appears ; 
Night  after  night,  dark  curtains  wrap  the  skies  ; 
And  man  sinks  downward  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Buds,  blossoms,  bears  his  fruit,  decays  and  dies  : 
He  fills  the  spot  his  fathers  filled  of  old  ; 
Their  ashes  now  mix  with  the  cheerless  clay — 
And  he  soon,  slumbering  on  earth's  bosom  cold, 
Shall  lie  as  low,  and  sleep  as  sound  as  they. 
And  other  generations  rise  and  fall, 
Till  the  all-embracing  plan  shall  be  complete, 
Christ  owned  the  Saviour  and  the  Judge  of  all, 
The  power  of  evil  vanquished  at  his  feet, 
And  death  extinct  for  ever ! — O  to  share 
His  triumphs, — and  from  his  benignant  voice 
The  approving  '  Welcome  to  thy  home ! '  to  hear — 
Were  all  of  earthly  hopes  and  all  of  heavenly  joys. 


182 


FRIDAY    MORNING. 

Like  a  priestess  from  her  temple's  shade, 
In  her  holiest  robes  of  light  arrayed, 
The  Morn  walks  forth  ; — Day's  glorious  star 
Towers  o'er  the  misty  mountains  far, 
The  heavens  are  bright  with  celestial  blue, 
The  earth  is  sprinkled  o'er  with  dew, 
And  all  is  bright  and  gay  and  fair  : 
The  spirit  of  joy  and  love  is  there- 
Fit  temple  for  that  Glorious  One, 
Who  formed  the  earth  and  woke  the  sun. 

If  any  soul  of  harmony 
Is  wakened  in  humanity, 
Thine  is  the  music,  Father !  Thine 
The  morning  minstrels'  songs  divine. 
Thou  first  didst  string  devotion's  lyre  ; 
Thine  is  the  daylight's  holy  fire, 
Thine  is  the  evening's  twilight  ray, 
And  Thine  the  veil  that  shades  the  day. 


FRIDAY    MORNING. 


183 


Above  yon  arch  sublime  of  heaven 
Is  Thy  eternal  chariot  driven  ; 
Above  the  visible  stars  Thou  reignest, 
Yet  sometimes  in  Thy  mercy  deignest 
To  bless  the  world  with  a  beam  of  light, 
Reflected  from  Thy  presence  bright. 

Bow  Thee  down  to  this  lowliest  sphere, 
Thou,  whose  wisdom  never  can  err ; 
Thou,  whose  power  no  limit  boundeth  ; 
Thou,  whose  love  all  space  surroundeth  ! 
If  Thou  wilt  speak,  there  are  thunders  near  Thee  ; 
Millions  of  ministering  spirits  hear  Thee, 
Ever  on  the  wing  to  obey : — 
Eternal  splendour  lights  Thy  way, 
Thy  footsteps  imprint  the  morning  hills, 
Thy  voice  is  heard  in  the  music  of  rills, 
In  the  song  of  birds,  and  the  heavenly  chorus 
That  nature  utters,  around  us,  o'er  us. 
Dead  is  the  sense,  and  dull  the  ear, 
That  cannot  perceive  Thee  every  where  : 
Every  where — and  in  every  thing  ; 
The  motion  in  the  insect's  wing, 


184  FRIDAY    MORNING. 

As  the  unmeasured  comet's  march, 
Rolling  sublime  in  von  boundless  arch  ; 
Beautiful  in  a  drop  of  dew 
As  in  the  rainbow's  glorious  hue ; 
In  the  light  zephyrs  audible 
As  in  the  storm-wave's  loudest  swell ; 
In  every  thing  Thy  glory  beameth — 
From  every  thing  Thy  witness  streameth 
Silence  itself  has  a  voice  for  Thee  ; 
In  the  thick  darkness  Thy  light  we  see ; 
Even  the  cold  grave,  dreary  and  damp, 
Is  illumined  by  Thy  eternal  lamp. 

Calmly  on !  the  grave's  dormitory 
Has  its  sweet  visions  of  hope  and  glory ; 
Heaven  shall  cheer  its  stillness  deep, 
Heaven  shall  watch  its  holy  sleep  ; 
O'er  it  a  brighter  sun  shall  rise 
Than  ever  lighted  the  visible  skies. 


185 

FRIDAY    EVENING. 

(From  the  Spanish  of  Fray  Luis  de  Leon.) 

When  yonder  glorious  sky, 
Lighted  with  million  lamps,  I  contemplate  ; 

And  turn  my  dazzled  eye 

To  this  vain  mortal  state, 
All  dim  and  visionary,  mean  and  desolate — 

A  mingled  joy  and  grief 
Fills  all  my  soul  with  dark  solicitude  ; 

I  find  a  short  relief 

In  tears,  whose  torrents  rude 
Roll  down  my  cheeks — or  thoughts  that  thus  intrude  : 

Thou  so  sublime  abode  ! 
Temple  of  light,  and  beauty's  fairest  shrine, — 

My  soul ! — a  spark  of  God, 

Aspiring  to  Thy  seats  divine — 
Why,  why  is  it  condemned  in  this  dull  cell  to  pine  ? 


188  FRIDAY     EVENING. 

Why  should  I  ask  in  vain 
For  truth's  pure  lamp — and  wander  here  alone, 

Seeking,  thro'  toil  and  pain, 

Light  from  the  Eternal  One  ; 
Following  a  shadow  still,  that  glimmers,  and  is  gone  ? 

Dreams  and  delusions  play 
With  man — he  thinks  not  of  his  mortal  fate  : 

Death  treads  his  silent  way  ; 

The  earth  turns  round — and  then,  too  late, 
Man  finds  no  beam  is  left  of  all  his  fancied  state. 

Rise  from  your  sleep,  vain  men ! 
Look  round — and  ask  if  spirits  born  of  heaven, 

And  bound  to  heaven  again, 

Were  only  lent  or  given 
To  be  in  this  mean  round  of  shades  and  follies  driven. 

Turn  your  unclouded  eye 
Up  to  yon  bright,  to  yon  eternal  spheres  ; 

And  spurn  the  vanity 

Of  time's  delusive  years, 
And  all  its  flattering  hopes  and  all  its  frowning  tears 


FRIDAY    EVENING.  187 

What  is  the  ground  ye  tread, 
But  a  mere  point  compared  with  that  vast  space, 

Around,  above  you  spread — 

Where,  in  the  Almighty's  face, 
The  present,  future,  past,  hold  an  eternal  place. 

List  to  the  concerts  pure 
Of  yon  harmonious,  countless  worlds  of  light ; 

See,  in  his  orbits  sure, 

Each  takes  his  journey  bright, 
Led  by  an  unseen  hand  thro'  the  vast  maze  of  night. 

See  how  the  pale  moon  rolls 
Her  silver  wheel ; — and,  scattering  beams  afar 

On  earth's  benighted  souls, 

See  wisdom's  holy  star — 
Or  in  his  fiery  course  the  sanguine  orb  of  war. 

Or  that  benignant  ray 
Which  love  hath  called  its  own,  and  made  so  fair ; 

Or  that  serene  display 

Of  power  supernal  there, 
Where  Jupiter  conducts  his  chariot  thro'  the  air 


188 


FRIDAY    EVENING. 


And,  circling  all  the  rest, 
See  Saturn,  father  of  the  golden  hours: 

While  round  him,  bright  and  blest, 

The  whole  empyreum  showers 
Its  glorious  streams  of  light  on  this  low  world  of  ours. 

But  who  to  these  can  turn 
And  weigh  them  'gainst  a  weeping  world  like  this : 

Nor  feel  his  spirits  burn 

To  grasp  so  sweet  a  bliss, 
And  mourn  that  exile  hard  which  here  his  portion  is  ! 

For  there,  and  there  alone 
Are  peace  and  joy  and  never-dying  love 

There, — on  a  splendid  throne, 

'Midst  all  those  fires  above, 
In  glories  and  delights  which  never  wane  nor  move. 

O  wondrous  blessedness! 
Whose  shadowy  effluence  hope  o'er  time  can  fling ; 

Day  that  shall  never  cease  : 

No  night  there  threatening — 
No  winter  there  to  chill  joy's  ever-during  spring. 


SATURDAY    MORNING.  189 

Ye  fields  of  changeless  green, 
Covered  with  living  streams  and  fadeless  flowers ; 

Thou  paradise  serene, 

Eternal — joyful  hours 
My  disembodied  soul  shall  welcome  in  thy  bowers. 


SATURDAY    MORNING. 

Another  portion  of  life  rolls  on, 

The  week  glides  calmly  by  ; 

And  down  the  swift  stream  of  time  we  run, 

To  the  sea  of  eternity. 

Who  knows  how  soon  the  hour  will  come 

When  the  sun  shall  put  out  his  light, 

And  the  Master  shall  call  his  labourers  home, 

To  sleep  in  the  valleys  of  night  3 

And  then  shall  He  take  a  strict  account 
Of  duties  neglected  and  done, 
And  millions  shall  read  their  vast  amount 
Recorded  one  by  one. 


190  SATURDAY    MORNING. 

And  every  bosom  shall  be  unveil'd, 
And  every  secret  known ; 
And  none  another's  sins  shall  shield, 
And  none  shall  hide  his  own  ! 

We  live  in  this  narrow  world  below, 

The  victims  of  self-deceit ; 

But  in  the  light  world  to  which  we  go, 

No  artifice  can  cheat. 

Folly  can  there  no  more  assume 

Wisdom's  imposing  dress ; 

Nor  hypocrisy  wear  the  towering  plume 

Of  conscious  righteousness. 

O  nothing  will  then  avail  us  there 

But  deeds  of  mercy  and  love  ; 

For  each  his  burden  of  sin  must  bear, 

At  the  high  tribunal  above. 

To  have  trained  our  spirits  to  forgive, 

As  we  hope  to  be  forgiven, 

And  every  day  on  earth  to  live 

As  candidates  for  heaven. 


SATURDAY    MORNING.  191 

We  are  weak  and  vain,  but  God  is  strong  ; 
We  are  blind,  but  His  piercing  eye, 
To  whose  orbit  all  space  and  time  belong, 
Embraces  infinity. 

We  wander — His  Spirit  leads  us  back 
To  the  heavenward  path  of  peace, 
And  His  glory  lights  the  holy  track 
That  ends  in  eternal  bliss. 

He  smiles  on  all — and  tho'  drear  and  dark 

Our  journey  may  seem  to  be — 

A  joyous,  a  bright,  tho'  lonely  spark, 

Shines  from  eternity. 

As  beneath  the  curtains  of  silver  snow 

The  flowers  of  the  valley  are  hid, 

So  the  flowers  of  hope  and  beauty  grow 

'Neath  the  grave's  pyramid. 

Even  in  the  shadiest,  darkest  night 
The  stars  shine  on  unseen ; 
And  the  sun  is  clad  in  his  robes  of  light, 
Tho'  mists  intrude  between. 


192  SATURDAY    EVEXIXO. 

And  the  grave,  tho*  dreary  and  dull  and  deep, 
Is  bright  with  a  heaven-bom  ray, 
And  its  long  and  seemingly  listless  sleep 
Shall  be  crowned  with  eternal  day. 


SATURDAY    EVENING. 

(Translation.) 

Lord  !  to  whose  being  ages  are  but  moments, 
Fugitive  moments  !  Thou,  eternal  Father  ! 
Listen  in  mercy — for  life's  passing  shadow 
Soon  will  be  scattered. 

'Tis  Thy  bright  presence  makes  all  nature  pregnant, 
Pregnant  with  beauty — 'tis  Thy  sacred  presence 
Fills  all  creation. — I  am  but  an  atom — 
Deign,  Lord!  to  hear  me. 

Glorious  and  mighty  !  Thy  right  hand  of  greatness 
Upholds  existence — What  is  man  before  Thee  ? 
Vanity,  ashes — indigence  and  folly : 
Smile,  then,  benignly ! 


SATURDAY    EVENING.  193 

Fountain  of  wisdom  !  Spirit  of  creation  ! 
Life-source  of  blessing  ! — hear  the  humble  praises 
Of  Thy  poor  pilgrim,  whose  short  day  of  sadness 
Soon  will  be  over  ! 


Thy  profound  spirit  sees  departed  ages, 
Ages  in  embryo — ages  veil'd  in  darkness, 
Present  and  future — all  alike  unravelled  :— - 
I  am  but  blindness. 


Highly  exalted  on  Thy  throne  of  glory, 
Being  unchanging  !  do  Thou  help  my  weakness 
From  the  o'erflowings  of  Thy  strength  :  O  Father ! 
Help  Thou  my  weakness. 


'Tis  Thy  proud  arm  that  yon  abyss  divideth, 
Blots  out  the  planets,  gives  the  stars  their  splendour, 
Rules  o'er  infinity,  uncontrolled  and  mighty : — 
I  am  as  nothing. 


194  SATURDAY    EVENING. 

E'en  the  plumed  songster,  wandering  thro'  creatior. 
E'en  the  gay  insect,  living  in  the  sunbeam  ; 
E'en  the  poor  earth-worm,  at  our  feet  extended — 
All  share  Thy  mercy. 


Deign,  then,  to  hear  me,  Father !  deign  to  bless  me ! 
Nothing  too  lowly  for  Thy  smiles  benignant ; 
Nothing  too  trifling  for  Thy  care,  Thy  kindness — 
I,  too,  may  share  them. 


Infinite  Being — Living  One  !  Eternal ! 
Wise  and  unchanging — Father,  Holy  Father ! 
Look  from  Thy  throne  of  brightness  and  of  glory 
On  this  Thy  suppliant ! 


HYMNS 


DEVOTIONAL  PIECES. 


k  a 


NIGHT. 

(From  the  German  of  Herder.) 

Dost  thou  come  again,  calm,  holy  mother 

Of  bright  stars  and  heavenly  aspirations  ; 

Dost  thou  visit  us  again  ?     Awaiting 

Thy  mild  presence,  Earth,  and  all  her  flowerets 

Bending  down  their  feeble  heads,  and  thirsting 

For  a  dewdrop,  pant.     My  sinking  spirit, 

Overflowing  with  a  thousand  visions, 

Waits  the  still  and  sacred  visitation 

Of  thy  gentle  influence: — Come,  inspire  me 

With  the  thoughts  of  happier  worlds,  and  brighter ; 

And  with  peace  my  weary  bosom  quicken. 

Star-surrounded,  gold-encircled  goddess ! 
Thou,  upon  whose  dark  and  ample  mantle 
Thousand  worlds  are  shining, — thou,  who  bearest, 

9     ■ 


198  NIGHT. 

Gently  bearest  all — their  restless  being — 

Fiery  courses — ever-busy  orbits — 

In  the  strength  of  everlasting  quiet. 

What  a  song  of  triumph  is  repeated 

Thro'  all  worlds  to  thee,  the  gentle  leader 

Of  the  starry  choirs  ! — a  song  of  glory 

Even  to  Him  who  stills  the  storm — whom  language — 

Whom  the  spirit's  utterance — whom  all  voices 

Praise, — and  sink  in  silence  at  His  presence. 

Holy  Silence  ! — o'er  the  world  now  brooding, — 
Gentle  stream,  that  to  the  eternal  borders 
Of  unmeasured  being  rolls  sublimely  ; 
And  thou,  noble  song  of  stars  and  planets, 
Light  of  light — the  gentle  speech  of  heaven  ! 
Night  environs  and  pervades  my  spirit — 
Seas  of  vast  infinity  surround  me — 
Fill  my  soul — heav'n  of  all  heav'ns — an  ocean 
Calm  and  silent,  full  of  glowing  beauties, 
As  heaven's  arch  is  full  of  fiery  sparkles. 

Mighty  Night !  I  bow  before  thy  altar ! 
Every  spark  of  this  all-filling  ether 
Is  a  frontlet  round  thy  holy  temple, 


NIGHT.  199 

Bright  with  heavenly  writing.     Who  can  read  it  1 

Flames  of  fire  written  by  the  Uncreated, 

On  the  night's  tall  brow.     It  says  :  Jehovah 

He  is  One — His  name  is  Everlasting — 

And  His  child  is  night : — His  higher  title 

Mystery; — whose  dark  and  shadowy  mantle 

None  may  dare  uplift ! — it  hath  created 

Worlds,  and  space,  and  time.  Its  privileged  children, 

Ever  in  the  path  of  law  and  order, 

Love  and  mighty  destiny — hasten  onward, 

Ever  hasten  tow'rds  the  living  Father. 

Drop  the  curtain,  then,  thou  holy  mother ! 
Shut  the  book  that's  full  of  heavenly  writing  ; 
I  can  read  no  more — can  soar  no  higher : — 
Thought  is  all  exhausted.     Rather  grant  me 
Thy  sweet  peace,  and  gently  pour  upon  me, 
Mother  of  soft  sleep  and  nightly  visions ! 
Pour  upon  me  dewdrops  of  oblivion 
And  forgetfulness  of  earthly  sorrow. 

Feel  I  not,  how  thy  kind  slumber-fetters 
Wrap  me  all  around  \ — thy  hand  maternal 
Shuts  with  tenderest  care  my  falling  eyelids  ? 


200  NIfiHT. 

Spirits  of  the  night  now  glide  before  me — 

Stately  forms — tall  and  majestic  shadows 

From  far  worlds  —  A  mildened  light  surrounds  me  : 

Light  ne'er  seen  by  my  awaken 'd  vision. 

What  a  moon  !  what  stars  of  dazzling  brightness! 

Do  I  soar — swim — dream  I — or  am  I  sinking 

Down  from  th'  Uncreated's  throne  ? — for  angels, 

Angels  are  around  me — lost  companions 

Of  my  childhood — -friends  long  since  departed, 

Guardian  spirits — some  unknown — they  offer 

The  warm  hand  of  fellowship — all  glowing — 

And  I  join  their  everlasting  music. 

S1  umber  still,  thou  dull  and  drowsy  burden 
Of  my  earthly  way  ;  Night  spreads  her  mantle, 
Night  — and  all  her  lamps  that  burn  so  brightly, 
Brightly  burn  in  yonder  hallowed  circle. 
Visitants  of  heaven  sink,  rise  before  me  ; 
Dwellers  of  the  stars — and  heaven's  bright  portals, 
In  my  nightly  dreams,  to  me  are  open. 
Every  angel,  every  blessed  spirit, 
All  heaven's  concert — all  are  smiling  on  me  : 
Moons  and  suns — up  to  what  sun  ascending  ? 


NIGHT. 


201 


What's  the  centre  of  these  endless  circles, 
All-creating — all-inspiring  Spirit  ? 
VeiPd  from  this  my  wandering  star — but  haply 
Seen  by  yon  far  sun's  more  privileged  dwellers. 

See !  with  what  a  sympathising  spirit 
All  these  stars  are  smiling ! — Do  ye  see  me, 
Me  the  dust  of  dust — who  dare  to  hail  ye, 
Hail  ye  as  my  friends — the  loved  companion!. 
Of  my  sweetest,  dearest,  highest  pleasures ; 
Gentlest  witnesses  of  peace  and  virtue  ? 

Heaven's  young  offspring — joy-inspiring  children 
Of  enkindled  night — and  thou,  fair  sister 
Of  my  hope,  my  joy,  and  my  devotion, 
Long  ye  smiled,  and  long  ye  shone  rejoicing, 
Clad  in  all  your  bright  and  festal  garments, 
Ere  I  was — and  ere  the  earth  had  being ! 
And  when  1  shall  be  not — when  oblivion 
Sweeps  away  that  earth— and  in  the  music 
Of  your  hymns  her  voice  shall  speak  no  longer  ; 
When  her  dull  and  distant  tones  shall  perish, 
And  the  sighs  which  from  her  poles  are  breaking, 
In  the  song  of  light  shall  be  extinguished — 

E  5 


202  MORNING    THOUGHTS. 

Shall  I  then,  fair  spirits,  dwell  among  ye  1 
Is  there  in  your  amaranthine  foliage 
Even  for  me  a  wreath  of  love  and  glory  ? 
That  my  voice  in  your  soft  choir  may  mingle  ; 
While  I  look  upon  this  lowly  dwelling, 
To  some  son  of  earth  a  ray  of  brightness, 
Or  a  hope-star  to  some  child  of  sorrow } 


MORNING    THOUGHTS. 

Come,  let  us  leave  the  vain,  the  proud, 
The  ambitious,  and  the  worldly-wise ; 
Pomp's  revels,  turbulent  and  loud, 
And  pleasure's  tempting  vanities  : 

And  let  us  mount  the  mantled  hill, 
Or  wander  in  the  waving  wood ; 
Or  trace  the  melancholy  rill 
Thro'  its  own  haunts  of  solitude ; 


MORNING    THOUGHTS.  203 

Or  seek  the  little  tufts  of  flowers, 
Hid  'neath  the  turf  from  sultry  beams : 
Nor  waste  life's  swift  and  smiling  hours 
In  senseless  joys  or  idle  dreams. 


Or  let  us  tread  the  ocean  shore  ; 
And,  while  its  surges  rise  and  roll, 
Their  voice  sublime,  their  blended  roar, 
Shall  fall  like  music  on  the  soul. 


Or  watch  the  busy  clouds,  that  sail 
Along  the  heavens  like  living  things 
Soar  on  the  spirit-rousing  gate — 
Or  take  the  gentler  zephyr's  wings. 


And  then  our  hallowed  talk  shall  be 
Of  Him  who  reared  the  mountains  high. 
Pour'd  out  the  waters  of  the  sea, 
Painted  the  flowers,  and  arch'd  the  sky. 


204  MORNING    THOUGHTS. 

Tis  in  the  silence,  in  the  shade, 
That  light  from  heaven  illumes  our  road  ; 
And  man.  even  mortal  man,  is  made, 
If  not  a  god — almost  a  god. 


'Tis  then  he  feels  and  hears  and  se^s 
Thoughts,  hopes,  and  joys  to  angels  given 
Those  chains  of  towering  sympathies 
Which  link  the  earthly  soul  to  heaven. 


Beyond  or  moon,  or  sun,  or  star, 
The  enfranchised  spirit  soars — the  ray 
Of  morning  is  its  glorious  car, 
And  comets  light  it  on  its  way. 


It  travels  o'er  the  vast  abyss 
Of  space  and  time,  and  joys  to  see 
The  pregnant  future  bright  with  bliss, 
And  love,  and  joy,  and  liberty. 


MORNING    THOUGHTS.  20* 

Then  bending  down  to  earth  again, 
Full  of  glad  hope, — 'tis  trained  to  bear 
The  lightened  weight  of  mortal  pain  ; 
The  passing  storm  of  earthly  care. 


And  every  stream  more  gently  flows, 
And  every  flower  more  freshly  smells, 
And  every  breeze  more  gaily  blows, 
And  every  note  more  sweetly  swells. 


The  light  that  shines  within,  is  shed 
O'er  all  above,  around,  below  ; 
The  stars  are  brighter  o'er  our  head, 
And  brighter  is  the  sunny  glow. 


Even  darkness  has  a  cheering  smile, 
And  twilight  kindles  into  day ; 
And  the  heart  rests  untroubled — while 
Visions  of  Eden  round  it  play. 


206  MORNING  THOUGHTS. 

And,  journeying  onwards,  peace  and  hope 
And  holy  memory  gild  the  gloom, 
While  man  descends  the  gentle  slope 
Which  brings  him  to  the  quiet  tomb. 


There  shall  he  rest : — till,  ages  gone,— 
When,  summoned  to  a  higher  sphere, 
He  shall  enjoy  that  blissful  sun 
Whose  distant  rays  consoled  him  here. 


207 


EVENING  THOUGHTS  ON  DEATH 

The  good  man  dies — it  grieves  us  ■ 
Why  should  the  good  man  die  ? 
He  dies — but,  dying,  leaves  us 
A  lasting  legacy. 
And  this  becomes  our  comforter; 
And  sweeter  is  the  thought 
Of  him  who  is  departed, 
Than  all  that  death  hath  left  :— 
No  longer,  broken-hearted, 
Deem  that  thou  art  bereft ; 
For,  O !  the  good  man's  memory 
Is  sweeter  far  than  aught. 


No  sorrows  now  disturb  him, 
No  disappointment  there ; 
No  worldly  pride  to  curb  him 
In  his  sublime  caraer : 


208  EVENING   THOUGHTS  ON   DEATH. 

Heaven's  azure  arch  is  over  him, 
Earth's  tranquil  breast  beneath. 
The  stars  are  brightly  glowing, 
The  breezes  play  around, 
The  flowers  are  sweetly  blowing, 
The  dew  is  on  the  ground, 
And  emerald  mosses  cover  him — 
How  beautiful  is  death  ! 


His  life — a  summer's  even* 

Whose  sun  of  light,  tho'  set 

Amidst  the  clouds  of  heaven, 

Leaves  streams  of  brightness  yet ; 

And  thus  he  sinks  victoriously 

Into  his  ocean  throne  : 

Then  darkness  gathers  round  him — 

'Tis  but  a  night : — again 

He  bursts  the  chains  that  bound  him  ; 

He  rises  from  the  main, 

And  marches  heavenward  gloriously 

In  splendours  of  his  own. 


EVENING  THOUGHTS   ON   DEATH.  209 

Yon  gems  so  sweetly  sparkling 
On  heaven's  cerulean  deep, 
What  time  the  twilight  darkling 
Brings  nature's  hours  of  sleep, 
Are  perhaps  the  bright  receptacles 
Of  disembodied  souls  : 
Of  souls  that,  long  desiring 
Some  more  than  mortal  joy, 
Burst  in  their  proud  aspiring, 
And  fix  themselves  on  high ; 
And  on  this  earth  look  tenderly, 
That  low  beneath  them  rolls. 


Yes  !  in  those  orbs  of  glory 
Methinks  I  see  the  ray, 
Which  wisdom's  sages  hoary 
Have  scattered  o'er  my  way, 
With  brighter  wisdom  perfected, 
All  strength — all  purity. 
In  yonder  gentle  star-light 
I  see  the  holy  tear, 


210  EVENING  THOUGHTS  ON   DEATH. 

Glistening  in  fair  tho'  far  light, 
Which  once  consoled  me  here — 
Till  1  was  left  in  wretchedness, 
And  none  to  weep  with  me. 

Roll  on,  fair  worlds  !  and  over 
Earth's  vale  your  torches  blend : — 
In  each  my  thoughts  discover 
Smiles  of  some  cherish 'd  friend, 
Whose  melancholy  pilgrimage 
Wearies  the  heart  no  more. 
O  yes  !  I  hear  their  voices, 
O  yes !  their  forms  I  see  ; 
And  then  my  soul  rejoices, 
And  raptured  seems  to  be 
Their  momentary  visitant ; 
But  soon  the  dream  is  o'er. 

I'll  build  a  fane  elysian 
Among  those  towers  divine, 
And  there  in  hallowed  vision, 
When  gloomy  thoughts  are  mine, 


WRITTEN    AT    SEA.  211 


Will  soar  in  glowing  ecstasy — 
There  shall  my  joys  be  stored  ; 
And  there  my  soul,  reposing 
On  contemplation's  breast, 
When  earthly  scenes  are  closing, 
Shall  find  a  place  of  rest, 
And  leave  this  lowly  solitude 
Forgotten — undeplored. 


WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 


When  the  bark  by  a  gentle  breath  is  driven, 
And  the  bright  sun  dances  in  the  heaven 
Up  and  down,  as  the  rocking  boat 
Upon  the  ridgy  waves  doth  float — 
And  the  fresh  sea  sprinkles  the  sloping  deck, 
And  nought  is  seen  but  some  snowy  speck 
On  the  distant  verge — and  the  sky  above, 
And  the  waters  around — 'tis  sweet  to  move 
Gladly  from  one  to  another  strand, 
Guided  by  some  invisible  hand. 


212 


WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 


Gladly,  aye  !  for  him  who  leaves 

No  friend  behind,  who  dreams,  and  grieves, 

And  dreads  that  every  breezy  breath 

Is  the  winged  charioteer  of  death. 

Ah !  that  love  is  a  fearful  thing  ; 
It  hovers  round  on  a  vampire's  wing ; 
Darkness  is  its  abode — it  dwells 
In  caverns  and  spectre-peopled  cells  ; 
Tis  wont  to  play  with  phantoms  dread, 
And  wreathes  the  aconite  round  its  head  : 
The  desert  and  the  grove  it  seeks, 
And  clouds  are  on  its  resplendent  cheeks  ; 
And  it  sits  in  storms, — and  builds  its  throne 
In  terror's  dark  pavilion ; 
And  its  bright  and  spirit-piercing  eyes 
Are  shrouded  in  thick  anxieties. 

Onwards !  onwards !  lo !  we  sweep 
The  heaving  bosom  of  the  deep — 
Freshens  the  wind ! — how  gay  to  ride 
On  the  pinions  of  the  eternal  tide, 
And  to  live  as  it  were  in  life's  excess, 
Midst  the  wild  waters'  frowardness. 


WRITTEN    AT    SEA.  213 

It  is  as  if  life's  currents  too, 
Driven  by  an  impulse  strange  and  new, 
Roll'd  with  a  swifter  course, — partaking 
Of  the  eager  spirit  round  us  waking. 

But  soon,  too  soon,  the  busy  sea 
Is  still'd  to  us — reality 
Waves  over  us  her  leaden  wand : 
We  tread  the  dull  and  changeless  land ! 
Our  bark  conducts  us  to  the  shore, 
And  the  fresh  breeze  impels  no  more ; 
For  us  repose  the  joyous  waves — 
And  we  all  slumber  in  our  graves. 

Thou  Steerer  of  the  storm !  who  guidest 
Our  little  vessel, — who  dividest 
The  waves  around  us, — who  hast  spread 
Heaven's  canopy  above  our  head, 
And  scattered  thro'  it  gales  of  love, 
To  waft  us  to  our  port  above  : 
Thou !  whose  omnipotent  voice  can  still 
The  mighty  ocean  as  the  rill : 
Thou !  subject  vast  of  praise  and  wonder, 
Who  in  the  breeze  and  in  the  thunder 


214  AFTER    A    STORM. 

Art  heard  alike — to  Thee,  O  friend 
O  Father  !  I  my  lot  commend. 
And  be  it  Thine,  All-wise !  as  now, 
A  favouring  passage  to  bestow 
Through  life's  dark  ocean — till  the  tomb 
Receives  us  in  its  mighty  womb, 
Where  we  shall  slumber  till  the  day, 
Of  days  the  greatest,  sends  its  ray 
Into  the  gloom  sepulchral — then 
Shall  the  raised  spirit  live  again, 
And  enter  on  a  course  which  never 
Can  be  disturbed  by  vain  endeavour, 
Nor  checked  by  storms  or  billows  dreary- 
Nor  hearts  despond — nor  hopes  be  weary. 


AFTER    A    STORM. 

Now  calm  is  the  rush  of  the  vehement  rain, 
The  storm,  on  his  thunder-car  driven, 
Descends  from  his  high  seat  of  terror  again, 
And  the  sun  takes  possession  of  heaven. 


AFTER    A    STORM.  215 

We  felt  the  wild  tempest,  the  torrent  we  saw, 
The  rage  of  the  whirlwind  we  heard : — 
And  wondered  such  terrible  powers  should  withdraw, 
And  repose  as  it  were  with  a  word. 

But  we  knew  that  the  lightning  so  flaming  and  fierce, 
Had  borrowed  its  glare  from  His  beam  ,•  [pierce 
We  had  learnt  that  the  thunderbolts,  tho'  they  might 
A  mountain,  were  fashioned  by  Him. 
And  we  saw  that  the  storm- winds  so  madly  that  roar, 
When  the  Mighty  One  checked  them,  were  still ; 
And  the  vehement  floods  that  o'erwhelm'd  us  before, 
Dispersed  like  the  dew  at  His  will. 

Are  these,  then,  the  arms  of  His  majesty  ?  Nay ! 

Are  these  then  His  terrors  ?  O  never ! 

No  thunders,  no  tempests,  distinguish  His  way  ; 

His  presence  is  every  where — ever — 

In  the  zephyr  that  welcomes  the  spring  of  the  year, 

As  in  the  loud  hurricane's  flight ; 

In  the  song  of  the  woods  and  the  waters  we  hear 

His  voice — as  in  whirlwinds  of  night. 


216  AFTER    A     STORM. 

In  the  glow-worm  His  rays  all-resplendent  areseen> 

As  bright  as  the  thunder-cloud's  flash  ; 

His  music  is  heard  in  the  flow  of  the  stream, 

As  in  the  high  waterfall's  dash. 

He  shines  in  the  rain-drop  that  hangs  on  the  eaves, 

As  in  the  vast  bed  of  the  ocean ; 

In  the  fragrance  of  flowers  and  the  verdure  of  leaves, 

As  in  Saturn,  or  Jupiter's  motion. 

The  rocks  that  are  hid  in  the  womb  of  the  deep, 

And  the  mountains  erected  on  high, 

The  moss  and  the  lichens  that  grow  on  the  steep, 

And  the  corals  in  darkness  that  lie — 

The  treasures  concealed  in  earth's  bosom  below, 

And  the  flowers  that  shine  gaily  above — 

Are  strong  in  the  strength,  and  are  bright  with  the  glow, 

Of  wisdom,  and  beauty,  and  love. 

Love — every  where  active — its  mantle  o'er  all, 
In  glory  and  beauty  is  spread : 
It  animates  life—  nor  deserts  the  dark  pall 
That  envelops  the  perishing  dead ; 


AFTER    A    STORM.  217 

Even  there  has  it  planted  hopes  dearer  than  life, 
Too  fair  for  a  mansion  like  this — 
And  waits  soaring  thoughts  from  this  valley  of  strife 
To  the  hills  of  ineffable  bliss. 

The  tempest,  the  storm  may  be  roaring  behind, 

There  is  nothing  but  glory  before : 

For  the  cold  damps  of  doubt  shall  embarrass  the  mind, 

And  chill  the  tired  spirit  no  more. 

Its  wings  are  extended — its  vision  is  clear, 

Its  path  is  the  brightness  of  day — 

The  music  of  seraphim  welcomes  it  there, 

And  cherubim  herald  its  way. 

All  brightness,  all  joy,  and  the  tears  and  the  sighs 

And  the  cares  which  tormented  it  here, 

Are  over — no  sigh  from  the  bosom  can  rise, 

No  eye  can  be  dimmed  with  a  tear  : —  [hope 

Then  rouse  thee — for  He  who  hath  called  thee  to 

For  a  daybreak  so  joyous  and  bright, 

Is  He  who  in  life's  lowly  vale  bids  thee  cope 

With  the  shadows  and  darkness  of  night. 


218 


PSALM    XC. 

Lord  I  thro'  ages-gathering  time, 
On  Thee,  sacred  and  sublime, 
We  have  built  our  joy,  our  faith ; 
While  the  mantling  robe  of  death 
Veil'd  the  unborn  mountains.    Ere 
This  majestic  rolling  sphere 
Sprung  to  birth,  Thy  footsteps  trod 
Over  time's  untravelled  road,, 
Ever  and  eternal  God  ! 

If  Thou  speak,  Destruction  calls 
Nations  to  her  midnight  halls, 
And  the  dust-born  sons  of  men 
Mingle  with  the  dust  again. 
Thousand  ages  roll  away 
In  Thy  sight,  as  yesterday 
When  'tis  past : — a  dream  forgot 
With  the  morning's  earliest  thought. 


PSALM    XC.  219 

Even  as  a  mighty  torrent  sweeps 
The  strawy  fragment  to  the  deeps ; 
A  vision  that  but  comes  and  goes ; 
Or  flowers  that  with  the  morning  rose, 
And  with  the  morning  flourished, 
Ere  the  cold  evening  faded,  dead — 
Beneath  Thy  frown  we  die  : — we  die, 
And  in  the  valley's  bosom  lie. 

O  God  !  Thy  spirit-searching  eye 
Reads  all  Thy  children's  history : 
And  sins  that  seem  in  distance  veil'd, 
And  errors  in  deep  shades  conceal'd, 
Before  Thy  penetrating  sight 
Blaze  in  a  horrid  glare  of  light. 

Careless  of  Thy  heart-searching  frown, 
Our  lamp  goes  out — our  life  sinks  down : 
That  lamp  is  feeble,  cheerless,  cold ; 
That  life  a  little  history  told  ; 
When  most  enduring  it  appears, 
And  trembling  into  seventy  years, 
Or  ten  years  more — its  utmost  length 
Is  waxing  pain  and  wasting  strength, 

L  2 


220  PSALM   xc. 

Labour  and  sorrow — then  the  thread 
Is  broken,  and  the  spirit  fled. 

But  who  Thy  anger,  Lord !  can  bear  ? 
'Tis  greater  than  a  mortal's  fear ! 
Its  might  more  terrible  than  ought 
Of  future  dread  or  present  thought. 
O  teach  us  so  to  count  our  days, 
So  to  improve  them  to  Thy  praise, 
That  wisdom  may  our  hearts  control, 
And  virtue  guide  our  wandering  soul. 
Return,  and  smile  again — and  bend 
Thy  ear  benignant,  Father — Friend ! 
No  longer  let  us  dread  Thy  wrath — 
Send  down  Thy  sunshine  on  our  path% 
And  let  futurity  be  blest, 
If  not  with  joy,  with  peace  and  rest. 


221 


HABAKKUK 

CHAP.  III. 


I  heard  Thee,  and  I  trembled: — Awful  One! 
Now  speak — but  speak  in  mercy's  mildest  tone — 
Wave  o'er  the  years  Thy  shadowing  wing ;  look  down, 
And  let  Thy  smile  burst  shining  thro*  Thy  frown. 
From  Teman  God  descends, 
The  Holy  One  from  Paran  bends — 
Shout !  the  song  of  gladness  raise  : 
His  glories  cover 
Heaven's  temple  over, 
And  earth  is  pregnant  with  His  glorious  praise ! 
His  brightness  is  an  everlasting  light, 
And  streams  of  fire  burst  from  His  hand  of  might ; 
The  plague,  the  pestilence,  are  driven  before  Hira  : 
He  stands  on  burning  coals,  with  clouds  and  vapours 
o'er  Him. 
The  earth  He  measures  in  His  hand ; 
The  nations  flee  at  His  command ; 


222 


HABAKKUK    III. 


The  everlasting  mountains  bow ; 
The  hills  are  scattered  wide — and  lo ! 
His  path  is  in  eternal  darkness  deep. 
The  tents  of  Cushan  weep; 
Midian  is  now  in  grief  arrayed, 
And  curtained  round  in  melancholy  shade. 

Lord !  have  the  rivers  disobeyed  Thee, 
That  Thou  hast  thus  in  frowns  arrayed  Thee ! 
Has  the  ocean  rolled  too  far, 
That  Thou  hast  mounted  Thy  glorious  car — 

Harnessed  Thy  mighty  steeds  ? 
Lord !  Thou  hast  bent  Thy  naked  bow, 
And  we  remember  Thy  promise  now : 

Thy  judgment  now  proceeds. 
Lord  !  the  rivers  that  seek  the  sea, 
Roll  on  their  course,  as  led  by  Thee. 

The  mountains  trembled  as  Thou  passedst  by; 
And  from  its  bounds  broke  forth  th'  o'erflowing  ocean ; 
The  deep  sent  forth  a  loud  and  troubled  cry, 
And  lifted  up  his  suppliant  hands  on  high  ; 
The  sun  and  moon  stood  still  in  deep  emotion — 


HABAKKUK    III.  223 

They  saw  the  light  of  Thy  glittering  spear  ; 
Thy  arrows  were  flying  thickly  there — 
Dreadful  was  Thy  march,  O  Lord  ! 
And  the  heathen  fell  beneath  Thy  sword. 
'Twas  for  Thy  chosen  people — the  salvation 
Of  Thine  anointed  nation — 

Thou  hast  upset  the  wicked  in  his  pride : 
He  came  forth  like  a  whirlwind  to  destroy — 
His  palace  is  in  dust, — and  his  unholy  joy, 
Oppression,  is  subdued.     Thou,  Lord !  didst  ride 
O'er  the  great  waters  :  when  I  heard,  I  shook— 
How  could  I  in  Thy  presence  stand  ? 
How  on  Thy  dazzling  brightness  look  % 
Voiceless  my  tongue  became,  and  impotent  my  hand. 

Tho'  the  fig-tree  should  not  shoot 
Her  wonted  blossoms — tho'  the  vine, 
Scathed  by  Thee,  should  yield  no  fruit — 
Tho'  the  olive  fail — the  kine 
In  the  stalls  should  droop  and  die  ; 
In  the  folds  the  fleecy  flock : 
Yet  the  Lord  shall  be  my  joy ! 
Yet  the  Lord  shall  be  my  rock ! 


224  I.    CORINTHIANS    XIII. 

He  shall  be  my  hope,  my  strength, 
My  rejoicing  shall  He  be! 
He  will  lead  my  soul  at  length 
To  His  own  felicity. 


CORINTHIANS 

FIRST  BOOK CHAP.  XIII. 


Tho'  every  tongue  that  man  e'er  uttered,  broke 
From  my  all-eloquent  lips — and  tho'  I  spoke 
The  languages  of  angels, — if  my  soul 
Were  not  attuned  to  love's  sweet  music,  all, 
All  were  a  hollow  sound — an  idle  voice, 
A  bell's  dull  tinkling,  or  a  cymbal's  noise. 

Tho'  I  could  read  the  books  of  prophecy  ; 
Withdraw  the  veil  of  heavenly  mystery ; 
Tho'  Science  led  me  thro'  her  various  way, 
And  I  had  power,  power  from  above,  to  say, 
<  Remove,  thou  mountain ! '  this  were  nought,  and  I 
An  useless  nothing,  without  Charity. 

Tho'  thousand  wretches  crowded  round  my  door, 
Relieved,  protected  by  my  generous  store, — 


I.    CORINTHIANS    XIII.  225 

Tho'  neither  flame  nor  sword  could  shake  my  faith, 
A  martyr  towering  o'er  the  fear  of  death, — 
I  were  no  offering  worthy  of  above, 
Unless  supported  and  impelled  by  Love. 

Love  is  long-suffering,  generous,  candid  ;  free 
From  envy,  pride,  and  self-complacency. 
Benignant  and  beneficent  and  mild, 
Pure-hearted  and  confiding  as  a  child, 
She  mourns  the  ravages  of  vice — but  sees 
With  holy  joy  Truth's  glorious  victories. 
All  things  she  bears,  with  hero-courage  bears, 
And  trusts  to  heaven  her  pleasures  and  her  cares  ; 
And  hopes  that  all  things  hasten  on  to  bliss, 
And  all  endures,  with  such  sweet  hopes  as  this. 

She  never  fails — the  prophet's  sacred  tongue 
Shall  by  the  hand  of  ages  be  unstrung ; 
The  wonder-working  gifts  of  heaven  shall  cease, 
And  knowledge  perish  in  forgetfulness ; 
But  soon  shall  better  prospects  dawn — the  ray 
Of  twilight  brightens  into  perfect  day, 
And  weakness,  weariness,  and  gloom  and  night, 
Give  way  to  beauty,  strength,  and  joy,  and  light. 

L  5 


22b  I.    CORINTHIANS    XIII. 

Even  as  a  child  in  early  opening  hours 
Totters  and  trips,  and  plies  his  little  powers, 
From  his  young  lips  imperfect  accents  break, 
His  thoughts  are  wandering,  and  his  judgment  weak ; 
Yet,  as  his  years  flow  on,  intelligence 
Glows  in  his  mind,  and  winning  eloquence 
Flows  from  his  tongue  ;  he  stands  erect,  and  can 
Glory  in  all  the  pride  and  power  of  man : — 
So  do  we  journey  heavenwards — children  here, 
But  we  shall  grow  to  man's  perfection  there. 

Our  earthly  vision  is  but  dark  and  dim  : 
There  shall  we  see,  in  the  pure  light  of  Him 
Who  is  all  brightness  ; — every  mist  disperse 
That  mantles  now  the  gloomy  universe  ; 
All  perils  past,  all  tears,  all  terrors  o'er, 
And  doubt  distress,  and  hope  delude,  no  more. 

There  are  these  angels  sent  by  heaven  to  guide 
Our  earthly  barks  thro'  time's  deceitful  tide  : 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity — benignant  three ! 
Charity  fairest — follow  Charity  ! 


227 


ANXIETIES  AND  COMFORTS. 

The  dreams  which  early  moments  deck'd- 
Hope's  sunny  summer  hours,  are  o'er, 
And  my  frail  bark  at  last  is  wreck'd 
On  sullen  Reason's  rocky  shore. 


I  was  a  joyous  streamlet,  tost 
From  hill  to  vale  in  eager  play  ; 
And  now  among  the  mountains  lost, 
Now  sweeping  o'er  the  plains  my  way. 


I  kiss'd  the  flowers, — the  woods  I  taught 
To  echo  back  my  song : — 'tis  past ! 
Lost  in  the  mighty  sea  of  thought, 
The  little  streamlet  rests  at  last. 


ANXIETIES    AND    COMFORTS. 

I  trembled  to  the  gentle  breeze — 
Sent  back  the  gorgeous  sunbeams  far 
Heard  all  the  moonlight's  mysteries, 
And  smiled  with  every  smiling  star. 


A  mingling  light  of  joy  and  love, 
Of  peace  and  hope  a  blended  sound : 
Heaven's  azure  arches  spread  above, 
And  laughing  Nature  all  around. 


Ah !  these  were  blissful  moments  : — yet 
I  revel  in  their  memory, — 
And  present  cares  and  fears  forget 
In  that  departed  ecstasy. 


Yes !  they  are  fled — those  hours  are  fled- 
Yet  their  sweet  memories  smiling  come, 
Like  spirits  of  the  hallowed  dead, 
And  linger  round  their  earlier  home. 


ANXIETIES    AND    COMFORTS.  229 

Rapt  in  the  thought,  my  passions  seem 
To  drink  the  exhausted  cup  of  bliss : 
And  do  I  dream  ?    Was  ever  dream 
So  bright,  so  beautiful  as  this  ? 


Alas  !  I  hear  the  thunders  roll, 
And  wake,  and  meditate,  and  weep  ; 
Night's  gloomy  mantle  wraps  my  soul, 
And  cheerless  silence  rules  the  deep. 


I  tread  my  melancholy  road, 
No  more  by  vain  delusions  driven, 
Hold  solemn  converse  with  my  God, 
And  track  my  onward  way  to  heaven. 


Then  from  the  world's  proud  glare  I  turn, 
To  yonder  bright  and  golden  sky  : 
And  there  I  study— thence  I  learn 
The  worth  of  worldly  pageantry. 


ANXIETIES    AND    COMPORTS. 

No  more  with  dazzled  eyes  I  look 
Upon  yon  vain  and  lettered  sage : 
For  Nature  is  a  gentle  book, 
And  deeper  wisdom  fills  her  page. 


Her  groves  to  me  are  painted  halls 
Perfumes,  her  early  morning  air  ; 
Her  mountains,  castellated  walls — 
And  all  is  honest  welcome  there. 


Her  concerts  are  of  birds  and  bees, 
And  rivers,  and  the  glorious  sea : 
And  holy  are  her  revelries, 
And  pure  her  joys  as  thought  can  be. 


Why  should  I  murmur  ? — o'er  this  scene 
Tho'  night  descend  and  thunders  roll, 
Man  may  create  a  heaven  within  ; 
In  the  still  temple  of  the  soul. 


281 


SISTE,    VIATOR! 


Look  around  thee — see  Decay 
On  her  wings  of  darkness,  sweeping 
Earth's  proud  monuments  away — 
See  the  Muse  of  history  weeping 
O'er  the  ruins  Time  hath  made — 
Strength  in  dust  and  ashes  laid, 
Virtue  in  oblivion  sleeping. 

Look  around  thee — Wisdom  there 
Careless  Death  confounds  with  Folly 
In  a  common  sepulchre  : 
See  the  unrighteous  and  the  holy 
Blended  in  the  general  wreck  : 
Well  those  tears  may  wet  thy  cheek, 
Tears  of  doubt  and  melancholy. 


232  SISTE,    VIATOR  ! 

Look  around  thee — Beauty's  light 
Is  extinguished, — Death  assembles 
Youth's  gay  morn  and  age's  night, — 
And  the  steadfast  mountain  trembles 
At  his  glance,  like  autumn's  leaf — 
All,  he  cries,  is  vain,  is  brief :     I 
And  the  tyrant  ne'er  dissembles. 

Look  behind  thee — cities  hid 
In  the  night  of  treacherous  story  ; 
Many  a  crumbling  pyramid, 
Many  a  pile  of  senseless  glory, 
Temples,  into  ruin  hurl'd, 
(Fragments  of  an  earlier  world,) 
Broken  fanes,  and  altars  hoary. 

Look  behind  thee — men  whose  frown 
Made  whole  nations  quake  before  them- 
What  is  left  of  their  renown  ? 
Wrecks  around,  oblivion  o'er  them  : 
Kings  and  conquerors,  where  are  they l. 
Ask  yon  worthless  heaps  of  clay— 
O  despise  not,  but  deplore  them  ! 


SISTE,    VIATOR  !  233 

Look  behind  thee — bards  sublime, 

Smiling  nymphs,  and  solemn  sages — ]' 

Go !  inquire  their  names  of  time ;  j^ 

Bid  it  read  its  earliest  pages. 

Foolish  questioner ! — If  fame 

Guard  thro*  years  a  cherished  name — 

Fame  itself  decays  in  ages. 

Look  before  thee — all  the  glare, 
All  the  pomp,  around  thee  glowing  ; 
All  that  charms  the  eye  or  ear, 
Strains  of  softest  music  flowing, 
Grace  and  beauty — all  are  sped 
Towards  the  ruins  of  the  dead  : 
Thither  thou  and  thine  are  going. 

Look  before  thee — at  yon  vault, 
Where  time's  ravage  is  recorded, 
Thou  wilt  be  compelled  to  halt : 
Thou  wilt  be  no  more  regarded 
Than  the  meekest,  meanest  slave, 
Sleeping  in  a  common  grave, 
Unrespected — unrewarded . 


234  SISTE,    VIATOR  ! 

Look  before  thee — at  thy  feet 
Monarchs  sleep  like  meaner  creatures : 
Where  the  voices,  now  so  sweet  ? 
Where  the  fair  ones'  smiling  features  ! — 
Hopest  thou  to  escape  the  tomb ! 
That  which  was  thy  father's  doom, 
Will  be  thine,  thy  son's,  and  nature's. 

Look  above  thee — there  indeed 
May  thy  thoughts  repose  delighted  ; 
If  thy  wounded  bosom  bleed, 
If  thy  fondest  hopes  are  blighted  ; 
^  There  a  stream  of  comfort  flows, 

There  a  sun  of  splendour  glows  : 
Wander,  then,  no  more  benighted. 

Look  above  thee — ages  roll, 
Present,  past,  and  future  blending — 
Earth  hath  nought  to  soothe  a  soul 
'Neath  affliction's  burden  bending, 
Nothing  'gainst  the  tempests  shock  ; 
Heaven  must  be  the  pilgrim's  rock, 
And  to  heaven  his  steps  are  tending. 


BLESSINGS    OF    INSTRUCTION.  235 

Look  above  thee — never  eye 
Saw  such  pleasures  as  await  thee  ; 
Thought  ne'er  reached  such  scenes  of  joy- 
As  are  there  prepared  to  meet  thee : 
Light  undying, — seraphs'  lyres, — 
Angel- welcomes, — cherub-choirs 
Smiling  thro'  heaven's  doors  to  greet  thee. 


BLESSINGS    OF    INSTRUCTION. 


The  heart  has  tendrils  like  the  vine, 

Which  round  another's  bosom  twine, 

Outspringing  from  the  living  tree 

Of  deeply  planted  sympathy  ; 

Whose  flowers  are  hope,  its  fruits  are  bliss, 

Beneficence  its  harvest  is. 


236  BLESSINGS    OF    INSTRUCTION. 

There  are  some  bosoms  dark  and  drear, 
Which  an  unwatered  desert  are  ; 
Yet  there  a  curious  eye  may  trace 
Some  smiling  spot,  some  verdant  place, 
Where  little  flowers,  the  weeds  between, 
Spend  their  soft  fragrance  all  unseen. 


Despise  them  not — for  wisdom's  toil 
Has  ne'er  disturbed  that  stubborn  soil : 
Yet  care  and  culture  might  have  brought 
The  ore  of  truth  from  mines  of  thought ; 
And  fancy's  fairest  flowers  had  bloom'd 
Where  truth  and  fancy  lie  entomb'd. 


Insult  him  not, — his  blackest  crime 
May  in  his  Maker's  eye  sublime, 
In  spite  of  all  thy  pride,  be  less 
Than  even  thy  daily  waywardness  ; 
Than  many  a  sin  and  many  a  stain 
Forgotten — and  impressed  again. 


BLESSINGS    OF    INSTRUCTION.  237 

There  is  in  every  human  heart 
Some  not  completely  barren  part, 
Where  seeds  of  truth  and  love  might  grow, 
And  flowers  of  generous  virtue  blow  : 
To  plant,  to  watch,  to  water  there, 
This  be  our  duty,  be  our  care ! 


And  sweet  it  is  the  growth  to  trace, 
Of  worth,  of  intellect,  of  grace, 
In  bosoms  where  our  labours  first 
Bid  the  young  seed  of  spring-time  burst, 
And  lead  it  on  from  hour  to  hour, 
To  ripen  into  perfect  flower. 


Hast  thou  e'er  seen  a  garden  clad 

In  all  the  robes  that  Eden  had — 

Or  vale  o'erspread  with  streams  and  trees, 

A  paradise  of  mysteries — 

Plains  with  green  hills  adorning  them, 

Like  jewels  in  a  diadem l. 


238  BLESSINGS    OF    INSTRUCTION. 

These  gardens,  vales,  and  plains,  and  hills, 
Which  beauty  gilds  and  music  fills, 
Were  once  but  deserts.     Culture's  hand 
Has  scattered  verdure  o'er  the  land, 
And  smiles  and  fragrance  rule  serene, 
Where  barren  wilds  usurped  the  scene. 


And  such  is  Man.     A  soil  which  breeds 
Or  sweetest  flowers  or  vilest  weeds  ; 
Flowers  lovely  as  the  morning's  light, 
Weeds  deadly  as  the  aconite  ; 
Just  as  his  heart  is  trained  to  bear 
The  poisonous  weed,  or  flow'ret  fair. 


SONNET. 

Tis  not  Thy  terrors,  Lord !  Thy  dreadful  frown, 
Which  keep  my  steps  in  duty's  narrow  path  ; 
'Tis  not  the  awful  threatenings  of  Thy  wrath, — 
But  that,  in  Virtue's  sacred  smile  alone 
I  find  or  peace  or  happiness.     Thy  light, 
In  all  its  prodigality,  is  shed 
Upon  the  worthy  and  the  unworthy  head : 
And  Thou  dost  wrap  in  misery's  stormy  night 
The  holy  as  the  thankless.     All  is  well : 
Thy  wisdom  has  to  each  his  portion  given : 
Why  should  our  hearts  by  selfishness  be  riven ! 
'Tis  vain  to  murmur — daring  to  rebel : — 
Lord  !  I  would  fear  Thee,  tho'  I  fear'd  not  hell ; 
And  love  Thee,  tho'  I  had  no  hopes  of  heaven.* 


*  Aunque  no  hubiera  cielo  yo  te  amara, 
Y  aunque  no  hubiera  infierno  te  temiera. 

Santa  Teresa. 


240 


HYMN. 


From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 
My  humble  prayer  ascends — O  Father!  hear  it' 
Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  fear  and  meekness, 
Forgive  its  weakness. 


I  know,  I  feel,  how  mean  and  how  unworthy 
The  trembling  sacrifice  I  pour  before  Thee  ; 
What  can  I  offer  in  Thy  presence  holy, 
But  sin  and  folly  1 


For  in  Thy  sight — who  every  bosom  viewest, 
Cold  are  our  warmest  vows,  and  vain  our  truest : 
Thoughts  of  a  hurrying  hour ;   our  lips  repeat  them, 
Our  hearts  forget  them. 


241 


We  see  Thy  hand — it  leads  us,  it  supports  us  ; 
We  hear  Thy  voice — it  counsels  and  it  courts  us 
And  then  we  turn  away — and  still  Thy  kindness 
Pardons  our  blindness. 


And  still  Thy  rain  descends,  Thy  sun  is  glowing, 
Fruits  ripen  round,  flow'rs  are  beneath  us  blowing, 
And,  as  if  man  were  some  deserving  creature, 
Joys  cover  nature. 


O  how  long-suffering,  Lord  !  but  Thou  delightest 
To  win  with  love  the  wandering — Thou  invitest, 
By  smiles  of  mercy, — not  by  frowns  or  terrors, 
Man  from  his  errors. 


Who  can  resist  Thy  gentle  call — appealing 
To  every  generous  thought,  and  grateful  feeling  ? 
That  voice  paternal — whispering,  watching  ever, 
My  bosom ! — Never. 


242  HYMN. 

Father  and  Saviour  !  plant  within  that  bosom 
These  seeds  of  holiness — and  bid  them  blossom 
In  fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and  vernal, 
And  Spring  eternal. 

Then  place  them  in  those  everlasting  gardens, 
Where  angels  walk,  and  seraphs  are  the  wardens  ; 
Where  every  flower  that  creeps  thro'  death's  dark 
Becomes  immortal.  [portals 


HYMN. 


If  all  our  hopes  and  all  our  fears 
Were  prisoned  in  life's  narrow  bound ; 
If,  travellers  thro'  this  vale  of  tears, 
We  saw  no  better  world  beyond  ; 
O  what  could  check  the  rising  sigh, 
What  earthly  thing  could  pleasure  give  ? 
O  who  would  venture  then  to  die — 
O  who  could  then  endure  to  live ! 


HYMN.  243 

Were  life  a  dark  and  desert  moor, 
Where  mists  and  clouds  eternal  spread 
Their  gloomy  veil  behind,  before, 
And  tempests  thunder  overhead : 
Where  not  a  sunbeam  breaks  the  gloom, 
And  not  a  floweret  smiles  beneath  : 
Who  could  exist  in  such  a  tomb — 
Who  dwell  in  darkness  and  in  death  ? 

And  such  were  life,  without  the  ray 
From  our  divine  religion  given  : 
'Tis  this  that  makes  our  darkness  day ; 
'Tis  this  that  makes  our  earth  a  heaven. 
Bright  is  the  golden  sun  above, 
And  beautiful  the  flowers  that  bloom, 
And  all  is  joy,  and  all  is  love, 
Reflected  from  a  world  to  come. 


m  2 


244 


DEATH. 

What  is  it  to  die  ?  to  drink 

Of  a  yet  untasted  river ; 

To  leap  from  a  yet  untrodden  brink, 

Which  we  shall  revisit  never. 


'Tis  to  take  a  journey  afar, 

In  a  cold  and  mirky  night, 

Thro'  paths  unknown,  where  moon  nor  star 

E'er  shed  a  smile  of  light. 


'Tis  to  sleep  in  a  clayey  cell, 
With  corruption  for  our  bride ; 
Deaf,  dumb,  insensible, 
Waked  by  no  morning's  tide. 


DEATH.  246 

Tis  to  mingle  with  ashes  and  dust, 
Like  the  meanest  thing  we  see, 
And  be  blown  about  by  the  windy  gust, 
Or  dissolve  in  the  mighty  sea. 


What  is  it  to  die  ?  'tis  nought 

But  to  close  the  book  of  care, 

Inter  in  the  grave  all  troubling  thought. 

And  rest  with  oblivion  there. 


This  is  the  worst ;  for  if  truth 

Shine  in  the  Scripture  page, 

The  spirit  shall  wear  the  wings  of  youth, 

And  live  through  an  endless  age. 


It  shall  bathe  in  the  living  streams 
Round  the  gardens  of  heaven  that  flow ; 
And  revel  in  light,  whose  dazzling  beams 
Disperse  all  the  mists  of  woe. 


246  HYM.V. 

Like  a  star  in  a  cloudless  night, 
Pure  and  sublime  shall  it  be — 
Fairer  than  noontide's  presence  bright — 
Fixed  as  eternity. 


HYMN 

How  dark — how  desolate 

Would  many  a  moment  be, 

Could  we  not  spring 

On  hope's  bright  wing, 

O  God !  to  heaven  and  Thee. 


Life  is  a  prison  cell 

We  are  doomed  to  occupy, 
In  which  confin'd, 
The  restless  mind 

Pines,  pants  for  liberty. 


247 


And  sometimes  streaks  of  light 
And  sunny  beams  we  see, 
They  shine  so  bright 
Thro'  sorrow's  night, 

They  needs  must  come  from  Thee. 


Say,  shall  a  morning  dawn 

When  prison-days  are  o'er, 

Whose  smiling  ray 

Shall  wake  a  day, 

That  night  shall  cloud  no  more  ? 


Blest  hope !  and  sure  as  blest ; 
life's  shades  of  misery 
Shdl  soon  be  past, 
And  joy  at  last 

Wilt  us  to  heaven  and  Thee. 


248 


HYMN. 

Why  should  dreams  so  dark  and  dreary 

Fill  my  thought  ? 

Is  there  nought, 
Nought  to  sooth  and  bless  the  weary  ? 
Night  may  wrap  the  arch  of  heaven — 

Soon  a  ray, 

Bright  with  day, 
Cheers  the  morn  and  gilds  the  even. 


I  have  seen  the  mountain  hidden 

In  a  shroud —     , 

Mist  and  cloud  ; 
Say,  was  hope  or  joy  forbidden  1 
No ! — I  knew  its  summit  hoary 

Soon  would  rise, 

'Midst  the  skies, 
Girt  with  green  and  crown'd  with  gUry. 


HYMN.  249 

Many  a  stream  with  song  of  gladness, 

Many  a  rill, 

Silent,  still, 
Winter  binds  in  chains  of  sadness  ; 
Many  a  waterfall  and  river : — 

Summer's  wand 

Breaks  their  band, 
And  their  music  ceases  never. 

Is  the  sun  in  heaven  no  longer, 

When  the  rain 

Sweeps  the  plain  ? 
Soon  he  blazes  brighter — stronger. 
Is  the  flow'ret's  sleep  eternal, 

When  its  cup, 

Folded  up, 
Waits  the  smiles  and  breezes  vernal  ? 

Why  should  man,  then — child  of  sorrow ! 

Mourn  his  doom  ? 

Present  gloom 
Will  be  light  and  bliss  to-morrow. 

M   5 


250  HYMN. 

Why  should  man,  then,  bound  his  vision 

To  the  cell 

Where  we  dwell — 
Worlds  are  his — and  worlds  elysian. 

Even  here  all  pain  is  fleeting  ; 

Even  here, 

Joy  and  care 
Join  in  constant,  earnest  greeting : 
But,  where  all  our  hopes  are  tending, 

Peace  and  love 

Reign  above — 
Bliss  unbroken — joy  unending. 


251 


HYMN. 

0  let  my  trembling  soul  be  still, 
While  darkness  veils  this  mortal  eye, 
And  wait  Thy  wise,  Thy  holy  will : 
Wrapt  yet  in  fears  and  mystery, 

1  cannot,  Lord  !  Thy  purpose  see  ; 
Yet  all  is  well — since  ruled  by  Thee. 

When,  mounted  on  Thy  clouded  car, 
Thou  send'st  Thy  darker  spirits  down, 
I  can  discern  Thy  light  afar, 
Tlry  light  sweet  beaming  thro'  Thy  frown; 
And,  should  I  faint  a  moment — then 
1  think  of  Thee, — and  smile  again. 

So,  trusting  in  Thy  love,  I  tread 

The  narrow  path  of  duty  on  : 

What  tho'  some  cherish'd  joys  are  fled  ? 

What  tho'  some  flattering  dreams  are  gone? 

Yet  purer,  brighter  joys  remain : 

Why  should  my  spirit,  then,  complain  ? 


252 


HYMN. 


On  the  dust  I'm  doom'd  to  sleep, 
But  shall  not  sleep  lor  ever  ; 
Fear  may  for  a  moment  weep, 
Christian  courage — never. 
Years  in  rapid  course  shall  roll, 
By  time's  chariot  driven, 
And  my  re-awakened  soul 
Wing  its  flight  to  heaven. 

What  tho'  o'er  my  mortal  tomb 
Clouds  and  mists  be  blending  ? 

I  Sweetest  hopes  shall  chace  the  gloom, 

\  Hopes  to  heaven  ascending. 
There  shall  be  my  stay,  my  trust, 
Ever  bright  and  vernal ; — 
Life  shall  blossom  out  of  dust, 
Life  and  joy  eternal. 


253 


HYMN. 


I  have  seen  the  morning  vapour 
Scattered  by  the  eye  of  day  ; 
I  have  seen  the  evening  taper 
Shine,  and  glimmer,  and  decay  ; 
And  bethought  me,  as  I  stood, 
These  are  man's  similitude. 


Man  is  like  a  vapour  flying 
With  the  twilight  o'er  the  dell ; 
Man  is  like  a  pale  lamp  dying 
In  its  solitary  cell — 
Light  and  shade — and  ill  and  good- 
Such  is  man's  vicissitude. 


254  SATURDAY     NIGHT. 

Man  is  like  a  vapour,  blending 
With  the  dew  of  morning's  breath  ; 
Man  is  like  a  pale  lamp  tending 
To  its  melancholy  death  : 
Neither  spared  by  whirlwinds  rude- 
Such  is  man's  similitude. 


SATURDAY    NIGHT. 


The  week  is  past !— its  latest  ray 
Is  vanished  with  the  closing  day ; 
And  'tis  as  far  beyond  our  grasp, 
Its  now-departed  hours  to  clasp, 
As  to  recall  that  moment  bright, 
When  first  creation  sprung  to  hght. 


SATURDAY    NIGHT.  255 

The  week  is  past !  And  has  it  brought 
Some  beams  of  sweet  and  soothing  thought  \ 
And  has  it  left  some  memory  dear 
Of  heavenly  raptures  tasted  here  \ 
It  has  not  winged  its  flight  in  vain, 
Altho'  it  ne'er  return  again. 

And  who  would  sigh  for  its  return  ! 
We  are  but  pilgrims,  born  to  mourn  ; 
And  moments,  as  they  onward  flow, 
Cut  short  the  thread  of  human  woe, 
And  bring  us  nearer  to  the  scenes 
Where  sorrows  end  and  heaven  begins. 


FINIS. 


jB.  Bensley,  Bolt  Court,  Fleet  Street. 


SPECIMENS 

OF 

THE   RUSSIAN   POETS 

TRANSLATED 

BY  JOHN  BOWRING,  F.L.S. 

AND  HONORARY  MEMBER  OF  SEVERAL  FOREIGN  SOCIETIES. 

WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES. 

SECOND  EDITION,  WITH  ADDITIONS. 

PRINTED  FOR 

G.  AND  W.  B.  WHITTAKER,  AND   R.  HUNTER,    LONDON  ; 

AND  ARCHIBALD  CONSTABLE  AND  CO.  EDINBURGH. 

"  This  volume  of  Mr.  Bowring  will  give  a  very  pre- 
cise and  just  idea  of  the  present  state  of  Russian 
Poetry." 

From  the  Conservator  of  St.  Petersburgh  of  the  £■  Dec,  1822. 

"  We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Bowring's  Specimens 
for  some  very  striking  translations  from  the  works  of 
the  Russian  Poets." 

Edinburgh  Magazine  fur  June  1821. 

"  Mr.  Bowring  merits  our  best  thanks  for  this 
volume  of  elegant  and  tasteful  selection." 

New  Edinburgh  Review  for  January  1822. 
"  The  translations  are  executed  with  extraordinary 
spirit  and  beauty." 

Gold's  London  Magazine  for  March  1821. 
"  We  congratulate  Mr.  Bowring  on  the  manner  in 
which  he  has   acquitted  himself  of  a  task,   curious 
from  its  novelty,  agreeable  from  its  subject,  and  gra- 
tifying from  its  style  and  execution." 

Literary  Gazette,  Sept.  29,  1821. 


"  This  volume  will  give  a  correct  idea  of  Russian 
Poetry,  both  as  to  its  metre  and  its  general  cha- 
racter." 

Gottingen  Literary  Notices,  No.  144. 

"  We  cannot  refrain  from  the  expression  of  our 
high  admiration  of  the  healthy  tone  and  manly  vigour 
which  distinguish  these  productions.  The  Muse  is 
here  invested  with  her  sublimest  attributes." 

Relfes  European  Magazine  for  Nov.  1822. 

"  Mr.  Bowring  has  decorated  his  subject  with 
every  grace." 

Gentleman's  Magazine,  Supplement  to  vol.  xcii. 

"  Among  the  first  ranks  of  English  translators  we 
know  not  of  one  who  appears  to  be  better  qualified 
for  the  difficult  task  of  translation — of  good  translation, 
we  mean." 

Christian  Disciple,  (Boston  U.  S.)  Sept.  and  Oct.  1821. 

"  We  hail  with  delight  proportioned  to  our  surprise, 

the  constellation  of  talent  which  here  bursts  on  us  in 

sudden  brilliancy,  as  the  opening  of  a  northern  spring 

when  it  starts  from  its  chill  and  cheerless  covering." 

Paris  Monthly  Review  for  June  1822. 

"  This  work  is  really  a  very  interesting  volume ; 
not  only  from  its  entire  novelty  of  subject,  but  on 
account  of  its  real  and  intrinsic  merit.  It  warms  our 
hearts — critics  as  we  are — to  think  that  such  poetry 
as  this  should  find  its  way  into  the  cottages  of  the 
Russian  peasantry,  illuminating  them,  as  it  cannot  fail 
to  do,  with  the  rays  of  pleasure  and  content. 

"  We  must  express  our  decided  admiration  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  translation  is  made — at  least  as 


far  as  we  are  enabled  to  judge.  It  is  evident  Mr.  B. 
possesses  a  very  elegant  and  cultivated  taste,  a 
copious  flow  of  language,  and  great  skill  and  variety 
of  versification." 

Baldwin's  London  Magazine  for  March  1821,  p.  316 — 21. 

"  Mr.  B.'s  volume  is  a  valuable  addition  to  our 
literary  stores.  After  the  world  seemed  exhausted, 
and  we  were  induced  literally  to  interpret  the  com- 
plaint of  the  wise  man,  that  there  is  nothing  new 
under  the  Sun,  Mr.  B.  has  led  the  way  to  the  Terra 
Incognita  of  poetry.  Of  his  own  merits  as  an  elegant 
and  spirited  versifier,  the  specimens  we  have  selected 
furnish  abundant  proof." 

Monthly  Magazine  for  March  1821,  p.  131 — 4. 

"  A  language  in  which  such  a  poem  as  this  is  to  be 
found  must  admit  of  being  made  the  vehicle  of  all  that 
is  noble  in  poetry.  It  was  Mr.  B.'s  plan  to  write  a 
general  history  of  the  i  infant  literature'  of  Russia. 
These  translations  are  certainly  well  adapted  te  pre- 
pare the  way  for  such  a  work,  by  exciting  an  interest 
in  the  subjects,  while  the  taste  and  ability  displayed 
in  this  volume  show  that  it  could  not  be  consigned  to 
a  person  better  qualified  for  the  undertaking." 

Eclectic  Review  for  March  1821,  p.  2S4 — 90. 

"  We  were  not  prepared  to  expect  that  Russia  had 
advanced  so  far  in  elegant  literature  as  this  really 
curious  and  interesting  volume  proves  she  has  done. 
We  have  been  so  delighted  with  it,  that  we  have 
dwelt  on  it  at  greater  length  than  is  usual  with  us, 
and  we  should  be  ungrateful  if  we  did  not  thank 
Mr.  B.  for  the  gratification  he  has  afforded  us." 

Literary  Chronicle,  No.  92,  103—5.  No.  93,  115—18. 


"  It  is  our  gratifying  duty  to  exhibit  a  few  choice 
exotics  from  the  snow-clad  mountains  of  Russia.  The 
appeal  they  make  to  the  heart  and  understanding  will 
be  immediately  felt  and  admitted." 

European  Magazine  for  March  1821. 

"  This  is  on  many  accounts  a  most  interesting 
volume.  It  is  the  first  attempt  to  naturalize  in  Eng- 
land the  poetical  literature  of  Russia.  Where  poetry 
of  so  cordial  a  kind  as  that  with  which  Mr.B.  has  en- 
riched our  borrowed  stores  is  familiar,  no  refinement 
can  be  long  absent." 

Monthly  Repository  for  March  1821. 

"  M.  Bowring  has  shown  in  his  enterprise  a  felici- 
tous and  flexible  talent.  Though  most  faithful  to  the 
varied  character  of  his  originals,  he  does  not  weary 
us  by  abrupt  contrasts.  He  made  a  delicate  choice 
before  he  entered  on  his  labours." 

Revue  Encyclopgdique,  Mai  1821,  p.  355 — 369. 


IN    THE    PRESS, 
A    SECOND    VOLUME    OF 

SPECIMENS  OF  THE  RUSSIAN  POETS, 

BY   THE   SAME  AUTHOR. 
SOLD  BY  G.  AND  W.  B.  WHITTAKER,  AVE-MARIA  LANE. 


Mr.  BO  WRING'S  Details  of  his  Imprisonment, 
Arrest,  and  Liberation,  by  the  Bourbon  Government 
of  France.     Price  4*. 

SOLD  BY  ROWLAND  HUNTER,  ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCHYARD, 
AND  EFFINGHAM  WILSON,  ROYAL  EXCHANGE. 


OBSERVATIONS 

ON 

THE     RESTRICTIVE     AND     PROHIBITORY 

COMMERCIAL  SYSTEM, 

FROM   THE   MSS.    OF  JEREMY    BENTHAM,   ESQ. 

BY  JOHN   BOWRING. 

SOLD    BY    ROWLAND  HUNTER,    LONDON, 

u  The  great  talent  of  Mr.  Bentham  consists  in  his 
extraordinary  power  of  extracting  general  conclu- 
sions, and  finally  principles  from  various  and  compli- 
cated premises ;  in  effecting  which,  although  his 
manner  is  often  verbally  elaborate,  the  result  is  uni- 
formly the  purest  mental  simplification.  In  this  tract 
this  happy  art  of  reducing  multifarious  facts  into 
manageable  dimensions  is  displayed  to  great  advan- 
tage. The  conclusions  are  brought  out  with  the  logical 
precision  for  which  this  author  is  so  remarkable,  and 
which,  by  forcing  back  the  mind  link  by  link  upon 
the  premises,  ensures  a  comprehensive  idea  of  a  sub- 
ject that  not  only  distracts  by  its  natural  perplexity, 
but  is  designedly  clouded  by  the  power  and  perversity 
of  commercial  selfishness." 

Examiner,  March  18,  1821. 

"  Tbe  subject  of  restrictions  on  commerce  is  clearly 
and  methodically  treated  in  this  small  work." 

Times,  March  24,  1821. 


"  Mr.  Bowiing,  from  his  extensive  commercial 
knowledge,  has  been  able  to  add  information  on  the 
practical  effect  of  the  commercial  system  in  Spain, 
which  would  be  very  instructive  to  its  advocates  in 
England." 

Traveller,  April  6,  1821. 

"  These  statements  are  illustrated  by  facts,  and 
strengthened  by  reasonings  which  it  would,  in  our 
opinion,  be  impossible  to  controvert.  This  work  de- 
serves the  maturest  consideration  of  every  reflecting 
man  in  the  United  Kingdom.  We  perfectly  agree 
with  the  author,  and  submit  his  arguments  to  the 
solemn  and  serious  meditation  of  our  country." 

Statesman^  March  26,  1821. 

°  Small  as  this  work  is, — not  so  its  merit.  It  is 
like  the  Iliad  when  shut  up  in  a  nut.  It  is  a  summary 
of  the  principles  of  sound  political  economy,  as  far  as 
commerce  is  concerned." 

0  Pcrtuguet,  lxviii.  p.  109. 


w 


